» A 



0' <• '^,^ 




A 







,^%i 

















■\: 



'--^ >^' 



O 0^ 









N t) V 









-/■%V/-^'' V* V 






%;" 






'OO^ 



x^" 









xOq,. 



v-Jy- ^ 












■x^^^' ■% 



.0^^ 












<- '-v^^'-^s^ 'X 









f . -^ 



v\^^ 



p I) 

<3 ^-^ " V-J,' 









o 0' 



ci-. . 






4'% 



'<!■ 



':..^' : 



'V 



.^\.. 



3>' ^^ 












o 0' 









</• ,\X 



/V" * 



•C''^^ 
v^^' '^/>. 






.V' * 






>;• 



alab (ax i\t ^0litarg 



gs an €fxtvixt. 



- i^^'^v** 




" Oh, herbaceous treat I 
T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat, 
Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul, 
And plunge his fingers iu tlie eaiad bowl!" — Sidnev ! 

*' The herbal savor gave his sense delight." — Quarlks. 



FIFT H THOUS AND. 



NEW YORK 




^T 



iV 



/M:>'< V*' 



LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW, 
No. 8 Park Place 



M D C C C I, T 1 1 . 



PSX77 9 



Kntered 

according to Act of 
Congress, in the year Out 
khoQsand eight hundred and fifty-three, 
BY LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN AND LAW, 
in the Clerk's OtBce of the District 
Court of the United States, 
for the Southern Dis- 
trict of N. y. 



BuiIK AND BBOTusBa, Printers, 20 North William Street, New York. 



NawYorl!; Stereotypsd by VINCENT DILL. Jr., 29 Beekman SltMtV 



INSCRIBED 



a 15 1] i It g t a 11 1 1" Ir i n g , 



WITH THE Sl.VCKRE RESPECT OV 



Tsa AiTiatai, 



^ M0rb '§xtlxmuxiixu^ 



" Cans't feed upon such nice and waterisli diet ?" 

Shaksj)ear(, 

Excellent salads, according to parson Adams, are to be found 
in every field ; we have garnered from the fertile fields of litera- 
tare. Should any one be curious to know why we have ventared 
to select Salad, for the entertainment of the reader, we beg to 
premise that it has an undoubted preference over a rich ragout, 
fricassee, or any other celebrated product of culinary art, from the 
fact that it is suitable to all seasons, as well as all sorts of persons, 
being a delectable conglomerate of good things, — meats, vege- 
tables, — acids and sweets, — oils, sauces, and other condiments too 
numerous to detail. It is expressed by a single word — Salma- 
gxcndi. There is a Spanish proverb which insists that four persons 
are indispensable to the production of a good salad, — a spend- 
thrift for oil, a miser for vinegar, a counsellor for salt, and a 
madman to stir it all up. 

Our Salad — a consarcination of many good things for the liter- 
ary palate, — 

" Various — that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change, 
And pleased with novelty, may be indulged ;" 



VI A WORD PRELIMINARY. 

will, it is hoped, felicitate the fancy, and prove an antidote to 
ennui, or any tendency to senescent foreboding, should such mental 
malady chance ever to haunt the seclusion of the solitary. An 
agreeable book, in intervals of leisure and retirement, is some- 
times most acceptable company ; the present work may possibly 
prove thus available. 

" A book," says Sidney Smith, " has no eyes, and ears, and feel- 
ings ; the best are apt every now and then to become a little 
languid ; whereas a living one walks about, and varies his conver- 
sation and manner, and prevents you from going to sleep. There 
is certainly a great evil in this, as well as a good ; for the interest 
between a man and his living folio becomes sometimes a little too 
keen, and in the competition for victory they become a little too 
animated towards, and sometimes exasperated against, each other ; 
whereas a man and his book generally keep the peace with toler- 
able success ; and if they disagree, the man shuts his book, and 
tosses it into the corner of the room, which it might not be quite 
so safe or easy to do with a living folio." 

The contents of this volume are not only various in kind, — 
variety may also be said to characterize its treatment, which 
has been attempted somewhat philosophically, poetically, ethi- 
cally, satirically, critically, hypothetically, aesthetically, hyper- 
bohcally, psychologically, metaphysically, humorously— and, since 
brevity is the soul of wit, sententiously. 

Having assumed so much adjectively on behalf of the book, 
nothing need be added respecting its adjunctive — the compiler ; 
Shakspeare has, however, portrayed him with such singular fidelity, 
that we herewith present the efiSgy to the scrutiny of the reader ; 

•' A votary of the desk, — a notched and cropped scrivener, — 

one that sucks his sustenance, as certain sick 

people are said to do — through a quill." 

F. S. 




FAGK 

Dietetics, <»9 

The Talkative and the Taciturn, 30 

Facts and Fancies about Flowers 48 

A Monologue on Matrimony, 64 

Curious and Costly Books 86 

Something about Nothing, 119 

Pastimes and Sports, ........ 132 

Dying Words of Distinguished Men, 154 

The Poetry of Plants, . 182 

Infelicities of the Intellectual., ..... 198 

Citations from the Cemeteries, 227 

The Shrines of Genius, . 262 

The Selfish and the Social, . .... 276 

Pleasures of the Pen, 291 

Sleep and its Mysteries, 318 




•* The wbolesom'st meats that are, will breed satiety 
Except we should admit of some variety, 
Still kept within the lists of good sobriety : — 
Wherefore if any think the book unseasonable, 
Men of reason may tluuk them unreasonable." 

Sir John Hakrington. 



"I here present thee with a hire of bees, laden some with 
wax, and some with honey. Fear not to approach I There are 
no wasps — there are no hornets here. If some wanton bee 
should chance to buzz about thine ear?, stand thy ground and 
hold thine hands ; there^s none will sting thee, if thou strike not 
first. If any do, she hath honey in her bag will cure thee too." 

QUARLSa. 





DIETETICS 



"The turn-pike road to people's hearts, I find, 

Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind." — Peter Pinder. 

" May it please you to dine with us ?" — Shakspeare. 

Every person of an appreciative taste knows how to estimate a 
good dinner: we do not appeal to those carnivorous animals who 
devour their repast with the impetuosity of beasts of prey. If a 
dish is delectable to the palate, why not prolong its enjoyment, 
and make the most of it ? The company of learned pundits and 
wits, our artist has portrayed above, we take to be connoisseurs in 
the art. Smollett's house was often the scene of such festive gath- 
erings, and his coteries comprised most of the distinguished men 
of letters of his day; epicures were they in a double sense. Dr. 
Johnson, no doubtful authority on the subject, affirmed, that " a 
tavern is the throne of human felicity !" We are not compelled 
to endorse his enthusiastic estimate, for he was accustomed to meet 
congenial spirits at his clubs as well as his favorite dishes. 

1* 



10 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



The clubs of London had their prototypes in the symposia of the 
Greeks, and the convivia of the Romans. These associations were 
revived in the reign of Queen Anne, and were in the zenith of 
their glory in the days of Johnson, Addison, Steel and Gar- 
rick. The Mermaid was the earliest on record in London. Gif- 
ford, in his memoir of Ben Jonson, has the following account of it : 
■'Sir Walter Raleigh, previously to his unfortunate engagement 
with the wretched Cobham and others, had instituted a meeting of 
the beaux esprits at the Mermaid, a celebrated tavern in Friday 
street. Of this club, which combined more talent and genius, per- 
haps, than ever met together before or since, our author was a 
member ; and here for many years he regularly repaired with 
Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, 
Donne, and many others whose names, even at this distant period, 
call up a mingled feeling of respect and reverence. Here, in the 
full flow and confidence of friendship, the lively and interesting 
' wit combats ' took place between Shakspeare and our author ; and 
hither, probably in allusion to them, Beaumont fondly lets his 
thoughts wander in his letter to Jonson from the country, — 

' What things have we seen 
Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
So nimble and so full of subtle flame, 
As if that every one from whom they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit into a jest.' " 

The " Kit-Kat Club," one of the most renowned of the clubs, was 
originated in the year 1700, and was the rendezvous of the nobility 
as well as the diletanti and cognoscenti. Horace Walpole remarks 
that its members included not only the wits of the time but the 
patriots that saved Britain. Although in respect of the rank of 
its members it sm'passed all similar institutions, it was very humble 
in its origin, and, if we may believe the accounts which are given 
of it, still more singular than humble. It appears from a memoir 
of Mr. Jacob Tonson, the celebrated bookseller, who seemed to 



DIETETICS. 11 



consider his membership of it, as well he might, the cliief glory of 
his life, that it was established mainly through his agency. It 
seems that this worthy had conceived a remarkable fondness for 
certain delicacies prepared by a pastry cook in Gray's Inn Lane, 
and particularly for his mutton pies, and finally induced him to 
remove his shop to the Fountain Tavern in the Strand, encourag- 
ing him with the hope that he and his friends would there extend 
to him a more liberal patronage. Tonson's business as a publisher 
had brought him into connection with a number of juvenile poets 
whom he once invited to an entertainment at the establishment of 
the pastry cook, and it turned out that the mutton pies proved as 
acceptable to the poets as they were to the bookseller, whereupon 
the latter generously offered to renew the collation weekly, if the 
former, on their part, would give him the refusal of their juvenile 
productions. His proposal was gladly accepted, and as the cook's 
name was Christopher, and his sign the Cat and Fiddle, they thence 
derived the quaint denomination of the " Kit-Kat Club." 

The science of eating and drinking is one of the few things we 
all acquire by intuition, and it is a faculty that once indulged is 
never forgotten, but cUngs to us with a tenacity that lasts with life 
itself. A real good dinner constitutes one of the realities of life, 
and to a hungry stomach, is among the most agreeable of enjoy- 
ments. Few regard the subject in a scientific light, or possess the 
refinement of fancy or educated taste essential to the luxurious in- 
dulgence of the palate of classic times ; we moderns preferring to 
appease simply the cravings of appetite, by devoting the more solid 
and substantial viands to the digestive process, rather than to 
gratify our organs of taste by the ingenious combinations of which 
food is susceptible by cuhnary art. So universal is the indulgence 
of this custom, that mankind have been divided into but two — the. 
great classes of those who eat to live, and those who live to eat: 
the former of course being by far the wiser part. This great fam- 
ily of eaters may, however, be subdivided into the following varie- 
ties: — Such as live by the " sweat of their brow," according to the 



12 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Divine edict; those who luxuriate on the bounty of their hospitable 
neighbors, in contravention of the original law; and others who 
"live upon half-pay," or rather merely vegetate upon the crumbs 
and fragments which descend from the tables of their opulent 
friends. All men are devotees to their dinner, be it either munifi- 
cently or meagerly endowed ; and all aim with equal zeal to do 
honor to the duty with a most exact and religious fidelity. There 
is an old adage which tells us that "fools make feasts and wise 
men eat of them," but we are inclined to skepticism as to the va- 
lidity of the maxim, for it certainly is a sage and praiseworthy 
thing to confer a good service on oneself, and certainly no man is 
ia so happy and complacent a condition as he who has just parta- 
ken of a generous and substantial meal. It has been affirmed, that 
man partakes of the nature of the animal of which he eats ; from 
this statement, also, we are disposed to record our dissent; for 
although a man may possess a prevailing jpcnchatit for mutton, for 
example, it does not seem to follow that he acquires in consequence 
any more sheepish expression, than that he who indulges his prefer- 
ence for bacon should evince a hoggish disposition. 

It is odd enough that a sheep when dead should turn to mutton, 
all but its head; for while we ask for a leg or shoulder of mutton, 
we never ask for a mutton's head. The flesh of the calf is trans- 
muted into veal ; that of the hog into bacon and ham, Avhile the 
sports of the chase usually result in game. But there is a fruit 
which changes its name still oftener. Grapes are so called, when 
fresh ; raisins when dried, and plums when in a pudding. 

In discussing the carnivorous propensities of the species, the fact 
that tastes and appetites vary to an almost indefinite extent, will 
be apparent at a glance. Every country has, also, some peculiar 
habits at their repast: some, like the orientals, indulge the recum- 
bent posture, others, like the Europeans, take their food sitting 
around the table. The Romans regarded their supper as their 
chief meal, as we do the dinner ; it was styled tridmium from tliree 
couches on which the guests reclined. The guests commonly were 



DIETETICS. 13 



accustomed to lie upon the bed, leaning upon their left elbow, with 
their upper part raised up. There were two or three on every 
bed; the one at the uj)per end, the next with his head leaning on 
the other's breast, the third the same manner. At public feasts, 
where many hundreds were invited, capacious couches were made, 
and accommodated to four or five persons at a table. Thus pre- 
])ared to eat, they ornamented their heads with garlands of roses, 
and other pleasant flowers, to refresh their brain, and preserve it 
from the ill consequences of excess of di'inking. 

We learn from Gilbert's Lectures on Commerce, that the luxu- 
ries of the table commenced about the period of the battle of Acti- 
um, and continued to the reign of Galba. Their delicacies consist- 
ed of peacocks, cranes of Malta, nightingales, venison, wild and 
tame fowls ; they were also fond of fish. The reigning taste was 
for a profusion of provisions ; whole wild boars were served up, 
filled with various small animals and birds of different kinds. The 
dish was called the Trojan horse, in allusion to the horse filled with 
soldiers. Fowls and game of all sorts were served up in pyramids, 
piled up in dishes as broad as modern tables. Mark Antony pro- 
vided eight boars for twelve guests. Caligula served up to his 
guests pearls of great value, dissolved in vinegar. LucuUus had a 
particular name for each apartment, and a certain scale of expense 
attached to each. Cicero and Pompey agreed to take supper with 
him, provided he would not order his servants to prepare anything 
extraordinary. He directed the servants to prepare supper in the 
room of the Apollo. His friends were surprised at the magnifi- 
cence of the entertainment. He then informed them, that when 
he mentioned the name of the room the servants knew the scale of 
expense. Whenever he supped in the room of Apollo, the supper 
always cost £1,250. He was equally sumptuous in his dress. A 
Roman praetor, who was to give games to the public, requested to 
borrow one hundred purple robes for the actors. Lucullus replied, 
that he could lend him two hundred if he wanted them. The Ro- 
man furniture in their houses corresponded with their profuseness 



14 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



ill other respects, Pliny states, that in his time more money was 
often given for a table than the amount of all the treasure found 
in Carthage when it was conquered by the Romans. 

The author of "Apician Morsels" informs us, that Julius Caesar 
sometimes ate at a meal the revenue of several provinces. 

VitcUius made four meals a day ; and, at all those he took with 
his friends, they never cost less than ten thousand crowns. That 
which was given to him by his brother was more magnificent. 
Two thousand select fishes were served up, seven thousand fat 
birds, and every delicacy which the ocean and Mediterranean sea 
could furnish. 

Nero sat at the table from mid-day till midnight, amidst the 
most monstrous profusion. Geta had all sorts of meat served up 
to him in alphabetical order. 

Hehogabalus regaled twelve of his friends in the most incredible 
manner. He gave to each guest animals of the same species with 
those he served them up to eat. He insisted upon their carrying 
away all the vases or cups of gold, silver, and precious stones, out 
of which they had drank ; and it is remarkable that he supplied 
each with new ones every time they asked to drink. He placed 
on the head of each a crown interwoven with foliage of gold, and 
gave them each a superbly ornamented and well-yoked car to return 
home with. He never eat fish but when he was near the sea; and 
when he was at a distance from it, he had them served up to him 
in sea water. 

The Roman banquets were much more remarkable for their 
profusion and costliness than for taste. The only merit of a dish 
composed of the brains of 500 peacocks, or the tongues of 500 
nightingales, must have been its costliness. 

A very remarkable peculiarity in the banquets of the ancients 
was, their not confining the resources of the table to the gratifica- 
tion of one sense alone. Having exhausted then- invention in the 
confection of stimulants for the palate, they broke new ground, and 
called in another sense to their aid ; and by the delicate application 



DIETETICS. 15 



of odors and richly-distilled perfumes, these refined voluptuaries 
aroused the fainting appetite, and added a more exquisite and 
ethereal enjoyment to the grosser pleasures of the board. The 
gratification of the sense of smelling (a sense held with us in very 
undeserved neglect, probably on account of its great delicacy) was 
a subject of no little importance to the Romans. However this 
may be, it is certain that the Romans considered flowers as form- 
ing a very essential article in their festal preparations ; and it is 
the opinion of Raccius, that at then* desserts the number of flowers 
far exceeded that of fruits. When Nero supped in his golden 
house, a mingled shower of flowers and odorous essences fell upon 
him ; and one of Heliogabalus' recreations was to smother his 
courtiers with flowers, of whom it may be said, "They died of a 
rose in aromatic pain." Nor was it entirely as an object of luxury 
that the ancients made use of flowers ; they were considered to pos- 
sess sanative and medicinal qualities. According to Pliny, Athe- 
nseus, and Plutarch, certaui herbs and flowers were of sovereign 
power to prevent the approaches of ebriety, and to facilitate, or, as 
Baccius less clearly expresses it, clarify, the functions of the brain. 

M. de Penscy professed to La Place, Chaptal and Berthollet 
that he regarded the discovery of a dish as a far mor.e interesting 
event than the discovery of a star, " for " said he, " of stars we have 
always enough, but we can never have too many dishes." 

In point of profusion, nothing was equal to that which reigned 
at the banquet of Ahasuei'us, who " regaled, during sixteen months, 
all the princes and governors of his state, and kept open house for 
seven entire days, for all the people of the great town of Suza." 

Excesses of this kind are of more modern date. According to 
Pius III., Sindrigile, Duke of Lithuania, never made a meal at 
which less than thirty different kinds of meat were present: and he 
sat six hours at his table. 

Specimens of inordinate eaters and drinkers might be cited ad 
nauseam. 

The following are some of the most striking examples. " Maxi- 



16 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



mus ate sixty pounds of meat per day ; Albinus swallowed in one 
morning three hundred figs, one hundred peaches, ten melons, 
twenty pounds of muscat, and forty oysters. Phagon devoured 
before Aurehus a wild boar, a hog, a sheep, and one hundred 
loaves, and drank a pipe of wine." 

While on the subject of hard eaters, we are reminded of the 
droll announcement of a certain parish clerk, in England, to the 
effect that the vestry were to meet for the purpose of eating the 
church and digesting other matters! D'Israeli has an amusing 
chapter on the eating customs of various nations, from which we 
quote a passage or two. The Moldavian islanders eat alone; a 
habit which probably arises from the primitive and uncivilized 
custom of barbarous tribes, who fear that others who may suffer 
from as keen an appetite, but who have more strength of constitu- 
tion, should come and ravish the whole meal 1 Those who inhabit 
the Phillippines, on the contrary, are remarkably sociable at their 
repasts. So strong is this feeling implanted in their rude natures, 
that it is stated they make it a rule, however intense their inward 
cravings, never to partake of their meal without a guest, even 
though compelled to run in search of some hungry mate. The 
tables of the opulent Chinese are made to shine with a lustrous 
polish, and are also covered with rich silk carpets, elegantly worked 
and embroidered. They do not make use of plates, knives and 
forks ; each guest has two little ivory or ebony sticks, which he 
handles very adroitly. It is said that in some parts*of China, when 
an entertainment is given, the host exhibits his condescension and 
politeness by absenting himself, while his guests regale themselves 
at his table in undisturbed possession. The Otaheitans, who are 
otherwise naturally sociable, and gentle in their manners, yet feed 
separately from each other. At the hour of repast the members 
of a family divide as follows : — two brothers, two sisters, and even 
husband and wife, have each their separate baskets. They place 
themselves at the distance of two or three yards apart, turn their 
backs, and eat their dinners in profound silence. A«mong most 



DIETETICS. IT 



rude people, the habit of partaking of food and drinking at separate 
times seems to be very general : the custom, doubtless, took its 
rise from necessity, which to^ often rendered it imperative. Many 
curious modes are in vogue, with barbarous nations, touching their 
method of entertaining guests. The demonstrations of friendship 
in a rude state, have a savage and gross character, bordering also 
on the ludicrous. The Tartars pull a man by the ear to press him 
to drink, and they continue this flattering torment till he opens his 
mouth, when they clap their hands and dance before him with great 
glee. No custom is, perhaps, more amusingly absm'd, than that 
resorted to by the Kamschatkan when he wishes to make another 
his friend. He first invites hun to eat : the host and his guest 
then strip themselves in a cabin, which is heated to an uncommon 
degree. While the visitor is devourmg his food, the other busily 
occupies himself with stirring the fire to produce an increased 
intensity of warmth of his attachment and regard. The poor 
guest is doomed to undergo this scorching ordeal, till nature abso- 
lutely revolts, and endurance can no longer abide the test, when 
they compound 1 In some instances, it is said, the poor victim of 
this ardent test of friendship positively becomes a martyr to his 
stomach and the fiery heat — instances being on record of death 
having ensued therefrom. If he survive, the stranger has, however, 
the right of retaliation allowed him ; and he usually exacts the 
same from his too kind host ; and this he does with an ardor and 
zeal, if possible, increased in its intensity by his own recent invol- 
untary sufferings. The only intelligible reason assigned for this 
peculiar custom is, that it affords a test of the sincerity of a friend's 
regard, and his power of endurance and fortitude, should his 
services in this respect be demanded on behalf of his worthy host. 
If we turn to the natives of Greenland, we shall find their om- 
nivorous habits tending almost exclusively to animal substances. 
Their dishes are, however, generally such as are not likely to be 
excessively provocative to any but northern palates; their greatest 
delicacy being in many cases part of a whale's tail, rendered soft 



18 SALAD FOK THE SOLITARY, 



and easy of digestion by being half-putrid, or, perhaps, a seal's 
carcass, in the same delicious state. Among other delectable dain- 
ties, they sometimes present the flesh of bears, sharks, gulls, &c. 
The poorer class subsist on even a coarser bill of fare ; they being 
compelled to satisfy the cravings of their omnivorous stomachs with 
whatever kind of food they can find ; even from the flesh of their 
foes down to those delicate zoological specimens which they may 
discover on each others heads. Ifl times of scarcity they wander 
to the coast, and avail themselves of sea-weed, which, of course, 
they find sufficiently saline without the addition of salt. The Lap- 
landers live upon the reindeer and bear, then- ordinary libation 
being whale-oil, or water in which juniper berries have been infused. 
It is a well known peculiarity of countries which lie withm or near 
the arctic circle, that the inhabitants require four or five times 
as much food as those of temperate climates. At Nova Zembla, 
from the greater activity and vigor of the digestive organs, Eu- 
ropeans are obliged to follow the example of the natives, by drink- 
ing the blood of the Reindeer, and eating raw flesh : the intense 
cold removing that disgust which such doses would naturally inspire 
among other people. To inhabitants of warm countries, temper- 
ance, or even occasional abstinence, is therefore no very difficult 
virtue ; northern nations, on the contrary, being voracious from 
instinct and necessity, to keep the requisite quantum of caloric. 
The wandering Calmuc Tartars, also, eat the flesh of horses, wild 
asses, and other animals, often in a raw state. The Chinese, on 
the other hand, are famous for the richness and variety of their 
entertainments, although some of their viands are somewhat novel 
and curious. An account of one of these is thus given by Captain 
Laplace, who attended one of their feasts : — "The first course was 
laid out in a great number of saucers, and consisted of variou? 
relishes in a cold state, among which were salted earth worms, pre 
pared and dried, but so cut up that I fortunately did not know 
what they were until I had swallowed them; smoked fish and ham, 
both of them cut up into extremely small slices ; besides which, 



DIETETICS. 19 



there was what they call Japan leather, a sort of darkish skin, hard 
and tough, with a strong and far from agreeable taste, and which 
seemed to have been macerated for some time in water. All these 
dishes, without exception, swam in soup. On one side figm'cd 
pigeons' eggs cooked m gravy, together with ducks and fowls cut 
very small, and immersed in a dark-colored sauce ; on the other, 
little balls made of sharks' fins, pounded shrimps, and maggots of 
an immense size." -Among the subordinate classes of the celes- 
tials, the feeding is almost as indiscriminate as amongst northern 
savages; cats, dogs, and such like delicacies, being regarded as 
first-rate ; a drowned rat is also deemed a dainty dish. The Siam- 
ese are still less scrupulous in then* tastes ; they devour, without 
distinction, rats, mice, serpents, putrified fish, and all sorts of garb- 
age. It is said those refined gourmands, the Parisians, also in- 
dulge strange fancies for dog's meat, delicately fricasseed ; and, 
according to a celebrated satu-ist, we are informed, that "when 
cats is in," the street pieman drives a great trade. The most dis- 
gusting of all recitals yet remains ; it is too horrible, however, to 
dilate upon in this place ; we refer to the practice of cannibalism. 
In the island of Sumatra, for instance, as well as among other 
savages, the prisoner of war is doomed to become the living repast 
of his wretched captors, and is literally eaten piecemeal. As an 
extreme contrast to the carnivorous tribes, we may mention the 
Brahmins of India, who religiously abstain from every kind of 
animal food, and even think it a crime to destroy gnats, or other 
vermin by which they are annoyed. In Persia very little anunal 
food is eaten, vegetable diet being almost universally preferred. 
The inhabitant of Australia, again, is characterised by his carni- 
vorous propensity for kangaroos, opossums, various sorts of insects, 
eggs of a large species of snake, and wild honey. The Cafi"res, in 
common with those savages already referred to, are in the habit 
of devouring various kinds of reptiles, such as large caterpillars, 
from which butterflies and moths are produced, also white ants 
grasshoppers, snakes and spiders ; they also indulge in more sub 



20 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



stantial meals of buffalo beef and the flesh of even the lion. Our 
neighbors of Mexico are said to be, like the French, very partial 
to frogs ; the banana, however, forms a principal article of food 
with them, also the cassava, which is extremely nutritive ; but the 
flesh of monkeys is with the Mexicans, as well as the inhabitants 
of some of the West India islands, very generally used, since they 
have a good supply of that genus in their forests. This penchant 
seems but one remove from absolute cannibalism, since, when this 
animal is divested of his skin, it precisely resembles a human being. 
There are some of the tribes of our Indians who are fond of rattle- 
snakes, which they boU or stew. The anaconda and other boas 
afford a wholesome diet to the natives of the countries they inhabit. 
Crocodiles, and lizards, are eaten in South America and the Baha- 
ma isles. The sloth is also a common article of diet there, which 
is said to resemble in flavor that of boiled mutton. The tapu* and 
the armadillo are eaten by the BraziUan and West Indian. Even 
in some parts of civilized Europe the inhabitants use as food many 
substances, the very mention of which would cause disgust and 
abhorrence to our more refined palates. In Denmark and Sweden 
horse flesh is publicly exposed for sale in the markets. In early 
times there seems to have been less scrupulous nicety in the choice 
of dishes in France, and Italy, and Rome, when those inhabitants 
had stomachs so brave as to digest even vipers, snails, toads, frogs; 
the latter, indeed, are not even excluded from the culinary prepa- 
rations of the modern Parisians. We have not yet finished our 
catalogue of the rarer dehcacies of mankind. There are the geo- 
phagists, or earth-eaters, and such as subsist on the bark of trees. 
Incredible as it may seem, the digestive functions of man, in his 
rudest state, are even capable of deriving a species of nutriment from 
the mineral kingdom. In New Guinea, and elsewhere, these abomi- 
nable earth-eaters are to be found. We learn from Humboldt that 
the Ottomaques, on the banks of the Meta and the Orinoco, feed 
on a fat, unctuous earth, or a species of pipeclay, tinged with a 
little oxide of iron. They collect this clay very carefully, distin- 



DIETETICS. 21 



guishing it by the taste ; they knead it into balls of four or five 
inches in diameter, which they bake sUghtly before a slow fire. 
Whole stacks of such provision are seen piled up in their huts. 
These balls are soaked in water when about to be used, and each 
individual eats about a pound of the material every day. The 
only addition which they make to this unnatural fare consists of 
small fish, lizards, and fern roots. In Java, Russia and Germany, 
this product of " mountain meal " is also resorted to as an element 
of food. 

Recent experiments in Germany have proved that the wood of 
various trees may be converted into a nutritious substance. The 
fibres of the birch, fir, lime, beech, poplar, and elm, when di'ied, 
ground and sifted, so as to form a powder like coarse flour, are not 
only capable of affording wholesome nourishment to man or domes- 
tic animals, but with a little culinary skill, constitute very palatable 
articles of food. Cold water being poured on this wood flour, 
inclosed in a fine linen bag, it becomes quite milky. 

The bark of trees, also, has been frequently used, when prepared 
in a similar way, as a substitute for other food. This is the harke- 
hrod of the Norwegians. 

When an English traveler expressed his surprise and disgust at 
some Arabs eating msects, the men retorted, that it was poor 
afifectation in a person who would swallow raw oysters. 

Having thus taken a brief survey of the several edibles of vari- 
ous nations, presenting an amusing assemblage of dishes — enough 
to flatter the most capricious palate of the veriest epicure, we shall 
leave their more minute discussion to the respective tastes and ap- 
petites of the reader ; nothing doubting that John Bull will indulge 
his predilection for roast beef, plum pudding, and old port, — • 
Monsieur his love for sojtp maigre, fricasee, and vin ordiimire — 
and Brother Jonathan his preference for everything that is nice, 
not excepting his down-east dish — pumpkin pie, 

Samuel Lover's joke of the Irishman in France, will doubtless 
occur to many: the Hibernian, upon being presented with a dish 



22 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



of the boasted "soup" aforesaid, eagerly surveyed its contents, and 
being about to throw off his coat, was asked what he was at, 
repUed, " Faith, I 'm going to swim for that bit of mate." He was 
evidently rather for solids than solutions. An Irishman is almost 
synonymous with his " pratee ;" it is his mate, as whiskey is his 
drink. At Manchester there was once convened a society of ver- 
dant bipeds, who rejoiced in the title of vegetarians, from their 
custom of eating nothing but vegetables. Their members fre- 
quently met for the laudable purpose of masticating mashed pota- 
toes and munching cabbage leaves. At one of these convocations, 
over 200 sat down to a table garnished with all varieties of gar- 
den stuff — such as sage and onions, beet root, mushrooms and 
parsley, and such like luxuries. 

A word or two touching libations. The faculty insist that every 
departure from water in its natural state, is an injury to the animal 
economy. We confess, however, with Parr, Johnson, Robert Hall, 
and other erudite pundits, a decided predilection for a good cup of 
tea. Leigh Hunt discourseth in rapturous strain on this topic, 
where he asks — 

" Did you ever return home from a journey, cold, wet, and weary, 
and unexpected, after tea was over, and the tea leaves ejected from 
the silver ? Bright eyes glistened with delight at the sight of you ; 
perhaps more than one pair, and a silvery voice names the magic 
word 'tea.' Out of some dozen of these instances, did it ever 
happen to you — when the tea had been made for you alone — to 
partake of a cup whose delicious fragrance had dwelt ever after on 
your palate, like a vision of paradise, and of which you have some- 
times a difficulty in persuading yourself that it was not all a dream ? 
Such an instance once occurred to me, not after a journey, but at 
a dining-out. I left the animals at their accustomed wine, and 
followed on the track of the girls, some of whom were so full of 
charms, that had Hebe fallen sick, they might have supplied her 
place at the board of Jove, without the fair nectar-bearer being 
missed. It was winter time ; the fire burned brightly, and the rug 



DIETETICS. 23 



was so soft and rich, that I would not have exchanged it for the 
golden fleece whicli set so many men raving of old. The ottoman 
on which I reclined might have made an old Roman spurn his sup- 
per couch, and the girls gathering around me, might have made 
old Mohammed sulky in his paradise, and all his houris jealous. 
By all the immortal gods ! that moment might have served as a 
memorable era in a century of lives ; but it was nothing to what 
followed. The clustering beauties called for a tale of the wilder- 
ness, of ' antres vast, and deserts wild,' and one presses more than 
the others. I see her now, her Greek face, her glossy hair, her 
speaking eyes, straight, penciled, defined, dark brows, long eye- 
lashes, and parted lips, ' discoursing eloquent music' 

" 'A bargain !' I said, as she sat on the ottoman by my side. 
' A cup of tea made after mine own fashion, and I will talk till 
sunrise !' 

" ' Agreed !' she replied, and the preparations were made. A 
hermetically sealed canister was brought, containing a single pound ; 
not a leaden canister, but one of tin ; not block tin, either, but the 
pure metal, thin, white, glittering, and crackling. Talk of the 
charms of an uncut novel, indeed ! Give me the opening of such 
a virgin case, pm"e as it left China. It was not green tea, it was 
not black tea ; neither too young nor too old ; not unpleasing with 
astringence, on the one hand, nor with the vapid, half earthly taste 
of decayed vegetable matter on the other ; it was tea in its most 
perfect state, full charged with aroma, which, when it was opened, 
diffused its fragrance through the whole apartment, putting all 
other perfumes to shame. About an ounce was then rubbed to 
powder by my fair Hebe, and deposited in its broad, shallow, silver 
receiver, with just cold water enough to saturate it. After stand- 
ing twenty minutes, hot water off the boil, as it is technically called, 
that is, free from ebullition, was poured on it, amounting in quantity 
to three-fjuarters of a pint, and the lid was closely shut down on it, 
while the cylindrical-shaped tea-cup was placed on the spout to 
catch the aroma thence issuing. At the expiration of a minute. 



24 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



it was poured out, (what a beautiful hand it was ! ) and the rich 
globules of essential oil might be seen floating on the surface, a 
perfect treasure of delight. A small portion of Alderney cream 
was instantly added, to prevent the escape of the essential oU, and 
just sufficient of the brilliant large-crystalized sugar to neutralize 
the slight bitter. Oh, heavens ! to sip that most exquisite cup of 
delight, was bliss almost too great for earth ; a thousand years of 
rapture all concentrated into the space of a minute, as if the joys 
of all the world had been skimmed for my peculiar drinking. I 
should rather say imbibing, for to have swallowed that liquid like 
an ordinary beverage, without tasting every di'op, would have been 
sacrilege." 

We hasten to close our remarks on the dietetics of various 
nations. We fear, however, the reader will find the subject very 
much of a medley — not dressed in a very artistic style — ^j^ossibly, 
indeed, not very easy of digestion. 

When Dean Swift was invited to dinner by his friend Lord 
Bolingbroke, and, as an inducement to accept, was shown the 
dinner bill, he replied, "A fig for your bill of fare — show me your 
bill of company." Those who are perfectly versant in forming 
good dinners are not always equally ati fait in their selection of 
guests ; such companies being often more incongruous and less 
likely to assimilate than the various viands, sauces and dainties 
of which the entertainment consists. 

" To borrow our analogy from the very table before us. It is 
well known that to constitute a perfect entree, there must be 
observed a certain coherence and harmony among the dishes, — so 
that fish may not interfere with fowl, or stew take the place of 
roast. How should we be shocked to see a syllabub responsive to 
sirloin, — a cod's head yoked with a mince-pie, — or a fricandau 
shouldering a plate of cherries ? With what anguish should we 
contemplate a duckling unattended by its green peas, — or a fowl 
divorced from its friendly ham ? In like manner, there must be 
a sort of adaptation or homogeneousuess among the guests 



DIETETICS . 25 



assembled, — so that the okl may not be confounded with the 
young, — the high with the homely, — the rough with the refined. 
Nay, there often occur individuals, who, like an acid and an 
alkali, though separately pungent, are totally neutralized by a 
junction. 

In illustration of the above remarks, it is sufiQcient to call atten- 
tion to the ill-assorted, misarranged, and, as we may say, utterly 
dislocated dinner-parties which we occasionally meet with. At one 
table you behold a judge, brimful of law, brought into contact with 
a captain of the sea, who al:)solutcly spouts salt water. At 
another, a spinster of the most perpendicular propriety is subjected 
to the explosions of a boisterous miss. At a third, a fair one is 
placed side by side with her quondam faithless adorer. At a 
fourth, two party opponents glare, like meteors, against each 
other, from their adverse orbits. At a fifth, you are immersed in 
a cloud of dull dignitaries, enough to stupify a whole hemisphere. 
Here an amatory poet encounters the critic by whom he was wor- 
ried. There a blue-stocking lady, overflowing with sentunent, is 
addressed by a matronly housewife on the scom-ing of blankets. 
Here a sprig of quality is grafted on a vulgar stock. There a 
votary of the highest mode is associated with persons tohom nobody 
knows. These, and a thousand other enormities which occur every 
day to mar the promise of a festive meeting, too sadly prove the truth 
of our complaints, and call for the most speedy and effectual 
remedies." 

It is melancholy to observe the effect of such mal-practices, in 
the symposial arrangements of our good city ; and w^hat results of 
mawkishness and stupidity are the consequence. 

Literary men have proverbially weak digestion, superinduced in 
most instances by theu* sedentary habits and devotion to study. 
So universally is this an infirmity to which the class are predis- 
posed, that a physician is said to have declared he never knew a 
literary man with a strong stomach. Sir Bulwer Lytton might be 
considered an exception, perhaps — thanks to the magic power of 

2 



26 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



hydropathy. On the subject of literary dietetics and libations, we 
find a very interesting essay by Chambers, of Edinburgh, to which 
source we shall have to be indebted for some of the following par- 
ticulars. For the love of charity, and the honor of the profession, 
we say not a word about those unfortunate ones who lived upon — 
nothing. 

Some authors have gained a notoriety for singularity in their 
diet and appetites. Dr. Rondelet, an ancient writer on fishes, was 
so fond of figs, that he died, in 1566, of a surfeit occasioned by 
eating them to excess. In a letter to a friend. Dr. Parr confesses 
his love of "hot boiled lobsters, with a profusion of shrimp-sauce." 
Pope, who was an epicure, would lie in bed for days at Lord Bo- 
lingbroke's, unless he were told that there were stewed lamprey's 
for dinner, when he arose instantly and came down to table. A 
gentleman treated Dr. Johnson to new honey and clouted cream, 
of which he ate so largely, that his entertainer became alarmed. 
All his Ufetune Dr. Johnson had a voracious attachment for a leg 
of mutton. " At my aunt Ford's," says he, " I ate so much of a 
boiled leg of mutton, that she used to talk of it. My mother, who 
was affected by little things, told me seriously that it would hardly 
ever be forgotten." Dryden, writing in 1699 to a lady, de- 
clming her invitation to a handsome supper, says: "If beggars 
might he choosers, a chine* of honest bacon would please my ap- 
petite more than all the marrow-puddings, for I like them better 
plain, having a very vulgar stomach." 

Dr. George Fordyce contended that as one meal a day was 
enough for a Uon, it ought to suffice for a man. Accordingly, for 
more than twenty years, the Doctor used to eat only a dinner in 
the whole course of the day. This solitary meal he took regularly 
at 4 o'clock, at Dolly's Chop House. A pound and a half of rump 
steak, half a broiled chicken, a plate of fish, a bottle of port, a 
quarter of a pint of brandy, and a tankard of strong ale, satisfied 
the doctor's moderate wants till four o'clock next day, and regu- 
larly engaged one hoar and a half of his time. Dinner over, he 



DIETETICS. 21 



returned to his home in Essex street, Strand, to deliver his six 
o'clock lecture on anatomy and chemistry. 

Baron Maseras, who lived nearly to the age of ninety, used to 
go home one day in every week without any dinner, eating only a 
round of dry toast at tea. 

Aristotle, like a true poet, seems to have literally feasted on 
fancy. Few could live more frugally ; in one^of his poems, he 
says of himself, "that he was a fit person to have lived in the 
world when acorns were the food of men." Shelley, who had an 
inefifable contempt for all the sensualities of the table, and, like 
Newton, used sometimes to inquire if he had dined, was of opinion 
that abstinence from animal food subtilises and clears the intellec- 
tual faculties. To counteract a tendency to corpulency, Lord By- 
ron, at one period, dined four days in the week on fish and vege- 
tables, and even stinted himself to a pint of claret. If temperate 
in eating, it does not appear that he was equally conscientious witb 
respect to his libations — especially in that beverage styled gm-and 
water, to the inspiration of which some of his lucubrations owe 
their origin. Burns — the glowing but erratic Burns — was, as i? 
too well known, a wretched instance of the baneful effects of iuten? 
perance. 

Charles Lamb delighted in roast pig and a draught of porter 
out of the pewter pot, and he would press his friends, even great 
men and bashful ladies, to taste the genuine article, fresh drawn a» 
the bar of his favorite little inn at Edmonton. Coleridge observe?, 
that " some men are like musical glasses — to produce their finest 
tones, you must keep them wet." Addison's recourse to the bottle 
as a cure for his taciturnity, finally induced those intemperate 
habits which elicited Dr. Johnson's memorable remarks — " In the 
bottle, discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and 
bashfulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was 
first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from 
the servile tunidity of his sober hours. He that feels oppression 
from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superior 



28 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



will desire to let loose his powers of conversation ; and who that 
ever asked succor from Bacchus was able to preserve himself from 
being enslaved by his auxiliary." 

A celebrated modern poet being invited to dinner by a lady, 
requested her to provide for him some perpermint cordial and 
black puddings. Goldsmith's usual beverage, in 1^64, was a 
slight decoction of sassafras, which had at that time a fashionable 
reputation as a purifier of the blood ; and his supper was uniformly 
a dish of boiled milk. Dr. Shaw, the naturalist, drank largely of 
green tea ; till, having lost the use of one arm, he says he discon 
tinned it, and recovered the use of the limb. 

Benjamin Franklin at one time contemplated practising absti- 
nence from animal food. " I hesitated some time," says he, 
"between principle and inclination, till at last recollecting that, 
when a cod had been opened, some small fish were found in it, 
I said to myself, if you eat one another, I see no reason why 
we may not eat you. I accordingly dined on the cod with no 
small degree of pleasure, and have since continued to eat like the 
rest of mankind, returning only occasionally to my vegetable plan. 
How convenient does it prove to be a rational animal, that knows 
how to find or invent a plausible pretext for whatever it has an 
inclination to do !" 

When Sir Isaac Newton was writing his " Principia," he lived 
on a scanty allowance of bread and water, and vegetable diet. 
Kuhl, the naturalist, was remarkably moderate in regard to food ; 
on his journeys, he required nothing more to allay hunger and 
thirst than dry bread, with milk and water, provided he could 
attain the object to which all his labors were directed — ^the exten- 
sion of his knowledge. 

Milton used to take " a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water," 
just before going to bed. He recommends 

♦* The rule of ' not too much,' by temperance taught, 
In "what thou eat'st and drink'st ; seeking from thence 
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight." 



DIETETICS. 



29 



Sir Walter Scott, from whoso works a very complete code for 
life aud conduct might be selected, used to say, that " greatness of 
any kind has no gi'eater foe than a habit of drinking." This 
striking and just remark is, however, only an abridgment of one by 
Swift, who pronounces temperance to be " a necessary virtue for 
great men ; since it is the parent of that ease and liberty, which 
are necessary for the improvement of the mind, and which philoso- 
phy allows to be one of the greatest felicities of life." 





THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 

" Words must be fitted to a man's mouth, — 'twas well said of the fellow that was to 
make a speech for my Lord Mayor, when he desired to take measure of his Lordship's 
month." — Selden. 

Human reason is a magnificent endowment : it is a glorious scin- 
tillation of Diety. It is in some sense our patent of celestial nobi- 
lity ; and if devoted to its high behests, will hereafter prove our 
passport to the bright and blissful associations of a future and 
higher estate of being. Speech is or was designed to be the 
utterance of reason. 

Speecli is the morning to tlie soul, 

It spreads the beauteous images abroad, 

Which else are furled and clouded. 

"There are seven distinguishing characters of voice in men and 
women. In men they are termed bass, baritone, tenor, robusto or 
full-tenor, and tenor-leggiadro or counter-tenor. Those of women 
are termed contralto, mezzo-soprano and soprano. The compass 
will be found to vary according to the length of the vocal chords 
and windpipe, the longest possessmg the power producing the 
greatest number of notes. Thus, one voice may comprise a range 
of twelve notes, and another of sixteen, yet both may be of the 
same character. The change which occurs in the voice in the 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 31 



decline of life, is the result of the ossification of the cai'tilai^cs of 
the larynx, and the hardening of its ligaments, which produce a 
hard and cracked sound. 

Nature is herself all vocal — she hath many voices — all are mu- 
sical. The sighing whisper of the zephyr — the roaring of the cata- 
ract — the hoarse thunder of the tempest — and the dulcet songs 
of the minstrels of the woods — all pour forth their various melo- 
dies in the grand choral chant to the Creator of all. How deep 
an interest do we possess in the faculty of speech. The eye is said 
never to be tii'ed of seeing, nor the ear with hearing, and both 
organs have enough in this beautiful world of sights and sounds for 
their delectation ; it is not surprising therefore that both should 
constantly crave indulgence. But v/hat should y\c be without 
speech — the intellectual "medium" of our social existence. If it 
were not an Hibernianism, we would say — let the dumb reply. 

The human voice is the most marvelous, as well as melodious, 
of all the music of nature. Sweet and rapturous as are the choral 
symphonies of birds, the rich melody of the harp, the viol, and 
all other instruments of sound, what are these to the soft, sweet 
cadences of woman's voice ? Who does not confess to the witch- 
ery of woman's persuasive speech, and who is proof against its 
potency? Eye-language is hers, also, and is full of magic and mys- 
tery — fascinating and beguiling is it ; but her voice is invincible. 
How strangely mysterious should we all appear to each other were 
we divested of the faculty of speech ? Life is full of disguises, 
even now, what should we know of each other were we incapable 
of the intercommunication of thought ? 

Life is a masquerade ; there is scarcely any person, or class of 
persons, who appear in true character. Life's disguises begin with 
the nursery, and continue throughout each successive stage, down 
to the grave. Shakspeare's laconic summary, is indeed susceptible 
of literal application, " all the world's a stage, and all the men and 
women merely players;", and, as in the histrionic profession, many 
assume a character they fifil cffe(;tively to impersonate, so in real 



32 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



life, how often do we discover similar mountebank exhibitions. 
We are not what we seem, and this is in consequence of our con- 
ventional usage, which renders the moral disguise more a matter 
of necessity than of choice. Because some, from the force of 
vicious habit, seem to prefer the wrong to the right ; it is not to be 
supposed that society at large would adopt and sanction any gross 
derehction, since the majority would be sure to dissent from such 
a course. Yet are not the laws and forms of civilized society 
amenable to the charge of systematic dissembling and deception ? 

How are the rules of etiquette, which govern the social inter- 
com'se of polite life, made to arbitrate against the honest sincerity 
and frank utterances of the heart and lips? We unfortunately 
encounter an individual who may be particularly unsavoury to us — 
and yet with affected blandness we express om'selves delighted at 
the interview. On the same principle we sip the sour wme of our 
most inhospitable host, and crack it up as of an excellent brand. 
The tailor often becomes the unconscious accessory to like cheats 
and impositions, for he speedily metamorphoses the vagabond, 
blackleg or rogue into an exquisite ; and as the world, — particu- 
larly the lea^b monde, generally estimate character by the degree of 
exterior decoration, it becomes an easy matter for such to acquire 
the entree. 

There are also sundry physiognomic deceptions, so notorious as 
to have grown into a proverb ; for example, — the mysterious, sa- 
pient look of the disciple of Esculapius, and the wily, sinister look 
of the "limb of the law," who, hke the "medicine man," not con- 
tent with wearing his visor, bothers his victim with unintelligible 
jargon of " dog latin." Such incipient moral frauds are to be de- 
tected in all sections of society. Who, in seeking to sell a horse, 
advertises his vices as well as his virtues ? And who would excuse 
a dowager for the unpardonable sin of defeating an eligible match 
by insinuating that the hopeful fair one is likely to prove another 
Xantippe ? Who even in familiar converse with his friend, tells 
" the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ?" 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 33 



Shcnstoue, speaking of tlio pliilosoi)hy of talkiug, says, "the 
commou fluency of speech, in many men, and most women, is owing 
to a scarcity of matter and a scarcity of words ; for whoever is 
master of a language, and has a mind full of ideas, will be apt, in 
speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both ; whereas common 
speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe 
them in ; and these are always ready at the mouth : so people can 
come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, than when a 
crowd is at the door." 

Man is pre-eminently distinguished from the brute creation by 
the faculty of speech, — a noble attribute, and one indispensable to 
his happiness as a social being. The only exceptions, we believe, 
to the rule of his exclusive possession of this rare gift, are, first, 
that of the serpent, whose seductive and persuasive argument 
despoiled the fau'est of mundane creatures of her innocence ; 
the other, that of the despised ass who rebuked the disobedient 
prophet : and these were miraculously conferred for the occasion. 

Doubtless our first parents possessed a perfect knowledge 
of language, possibly a dialect of Arabic or Hebrew, by intui- 
tion ; — of all languages the most musical, rich, and flexible. Wfl 
are unquestionably indebted to the first of womankind, and her 
fair successors, for the preservation of that common inheritance — 
our mother-tongne. 

A source of such varied pleasure may well elicit our profoundest 
gratitude, when even the faithful and devoted dog has emulated 
the possession of the gift by his bark, and the birds fill the air 
with their enchanting melody, or chirp responsive to our call, 
while many of the animal creation yield submissive obedience to 
the voice of man. How many a loved and well-remembered 
tone of some sainted being, long since passed to the spirit-land, 
still holds us spell-bound, lingermg in the mysterious cellf of 
memory ! 

Whether induced by an undue or an excessive appreciation of 
the gift, we pause not to determine ; but, certain it is, some 



34 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



persons indulge the faculty to too great an extent, and others, 
again, do the contrary. The former class we denominate the 
talkative ; the latter, the taciturn. 

Among the first named there are many who talk a great deal, 
while in effect they say nothing ; others, by their " expressive 
silence," are far more acceptable members of society, because when 
they do speak, they speak to some purpose. A still tongue, 
according to an old adage, denotes a wise head ; and Solomon 
says, " The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright, and is as 
choice silver." There are maxims manifold for teaching men to 
speak which are comparatively little required, since nature prompts 
us to utterance ; but few suggest the superior wisdom of main- 
taining a judicious silence, which requu'es the restraint of reason 
and prudence. We have intuitively the art of saying much on a 
little, whereas few possess the wit to say much in a little. In the 
art of speaking, as in chemical science, condensation is strength ; 
and in both cases the result is attained by a process of experimen- 
tal analysis. Presidential addresses and Parliamentary or Con- 
gressional harangues are celebrated specimens of the verbose, as 
well as the rhetorical ; and the three memorable words o^ a 
classic hero — "Yeni, Yidi, Yici," — furnish a splendid specimen of 
the multum in parvo, and an example especially worthy the imita- 
tion of modern times. WUliam, Prince of Orange, who made 
such a formidable stand against Spain, and founded the common- 
wealth of the United Provinces, was a noble instance of a 
sagaciously silent man. Cardinal Granville, a Spanish statesman, 
well knew the importance of this person's taciturnity, for, on 
receiving advice that Count Egmont and others were taken, he 
asked whether "the silent man" was also apprehended; and, 
having been answered in the negative, he replied, "Ah, then 
nothing is done." This gift of speech is the electric chain that 
links mankind together in the social compact ; it is the living 
medium through which the resources of the realm of thought 
become an intellectual currency. This prerogative of our rational 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITUUK. 35 



uaturo, therefore, should be devoted to the dissemination of truth, 
for, like all other endowments, it may be desecrated to unworthy 
ends, and be made the means of the most complicated evil. 

Let us glance at a few of the less venial sins of the talkative, — 
for they are manifold, and to classify them all would require the 
nice discrimination of an ethical Linnaeus. We begin with, the 
babbler, who is commonly an unhappy personage himself, for he 
has meddled too industriously with the affairs of others to enjoy 
any personal repose or satisfaction. Having made it the great 
business of his life to betray some hurtful secret, or aspersion on the 
foir fame and name of his neighbor, no one, of course, thinks it 
worth while to speak well of him while living, or even when 
his mischievous tongue becomes silent in death. These are the 
miserable creatures who batten upon the carrion and the noxious 
weeds of our social economv, — thrive most upon pestilential rumors, 
and the infectious breath of scandal ; all wholesome truth becomes 
insiped to their vitiated and depraved appetites ; and, like the fab- 
led Upas-tree, they diffuse the breath of poison and disease wher- 
ever they go. Few^, we suspect, pass in the procession of life 
without encountering a specimen of this class of injurious talkers, 
for their name is legion. They may usually be detected by their 
physiognomical developments ; their sinister glance, malicious eye, 
shrunken face, and attenuated form, reveal but too legibly their 
ignoble character. They enjoy a kind of negative existence — their 
only stimulus being the fiendish mischief they effect, and the ruin 
they cause to the peace and happiness of all around them. 

Another class of loquacious nuisances are those who deal in 
what is denominated small talk : they are of both sexes, and of all 
conditions of society. They are an impertinent set, constantly 
prattling about the common-place matters of life, are ever obtru- 
ding their nonsense upon the forbearance of their friends, and are 
prodigal spendthrifts of time. These notorious newsfnongers are 
the pest of the social circle ; they do almost as much harm, in an 
insidious way, to the well-being of society, as the babbler, by their 



36 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



retailiug of the petty scandal of the day, aud theh' uncharitable 
strictures upon the sayings and doings of others. Small-talkers 
revel most at the tea-table, — a fact for which we do not pretend to 
account, unless it be that they derive then- special inspiration from 
the beverage thereat dispensed. Births, marriages, and deaths, and 
love-matches, liaisons, and divorces, and the thousand peccadilloes 
then- greedy ears drink in from the perturbed stream of life, form 
the materiel of their senseless and incessant chatter ; and should 
they perchance find these sources to fail them, their pliant con- 
sciences make no scruple in drawing upon their imagination to 
supply the deficiency. They are not over fastidious at a fabrica- 
tion, or, as it is sometmies called, a white lie ; aud they are inge- 
nious in the art of putting a statement hypothetically, in sugges- 
ting an illiberal insinuation, or even in placing a palpable truth in 
an equivocal light, especially if it serve the purposes of personal 
scandal. The small-talkers may, however, be subdivided into two 
varieties ; the latter class being accustomed to deal homceopathi- 
cally in the diluted gossip of the day. These exhibit exemplary per- 
severance in the picking up aud purveying of the smallest particles 
of chit-chat ; and as they are usually provident of their stores, aud 
they make a very little go a great way, you may have theu* second- 
hand nothings at less than cost. These are among insufferable 
social nuisances — they are both parvenu and plebeian, and are fit 
subjects for the school for adults. 

The third class of objective talkers are such as find flaws in dia- 
mond-wit of the first waters — motes in the brightest rays of the 
mind — and beams in the eyes of Truth. Be yom* opinions what 
they may, however undeniable, correct, settled, or well-digested, 
they are sure to object to them. Let your opinions to-day be to 
the letter what theirs were yesterday, they instantly challenge 
theu* accuracy ; and if they are foiled in their arguments, they 
then turn their objections to the mode in which you have ijresented 
them. You speak unaffectedly, and they censure you for medio- 
crity, plainness, and want of spirit ; talk in ornate phrase, and 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 31 



your style is stilted and artificial : if your utterance is slow and 
deliberate, you are a drawling proser ; or if quick and fluent, your 
impetuosity is unendurable, and an equal offence of their immacu- 
late taste. You modestly betray that you are well read in the 
classics, and they accuse you of pedantry ; you conceal yom* biblio- 
graphical knowledge, and you are at once suspected of gross igno- 
rance, both of men and books. You bring them old opinions, and 
they doubt whether you have any of your own ; you deal hi new 
ones, and they object to them as unsound, while at the same time 
they will adopt them themselves, if occasion should admit : they 
are, in a word, special pleaders for their own views, at all hazards, 
— mere sticklers for terms, with whom it is indeed morally impos- 
sible for any to agree. 

Some talkative persons are ever dealing in exclamations, or are 
apostrophizers : these talk in admirations, — every topic, however 
commonplace, provokes their superlative wonder and amazement; 
they are incessantly interlarding their remarks with interjectional 
exclamations of surprise, such as the following : Gracious Heav- 
ens I You don't say so! Is it possible! You astound me! and 
the like. Such interlocutors are accustomed to be lavishly frequent 
in the use of the most excrutiating emphasis : they are also ad- 
dicted to the parenthetical style of discourse. Specimens of this 
class may be met with among elderly ladies, who fancy they know 
a great deal, — so extensive, indeed, is their acquaintance with 
things in general, that every new item of knowledge in particular 
produces an extraordinary effect upon their nervous system, they 
supposing it impossible that any thing further yet remains to be 
known in the world of wonders. 

Others are constantly indulging in interrogatives, — all they have 
to propose is in the catechetical form. These, we need scarcely 
remark, are of a naturally inquisitive turn of mind ; they are most 
indefatigable searchers after truth, — they are the most diligent in 
the pursuit of knowledge, and no difficulties impede their attain- 
ments. Curiosity is said to be a national characteristic, at least 



38 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



with the eastern section of our country ; but it is, perhaps, a uni- 
versal attribute of the female character. Women, by the way, 
are a strange enigma ; for they are most skillful in extracting 
secrets : yet who discover so little tact in retaining them ? They 
are, moreover, less ingenuous than the Hibernian, who excused 
himself for revealing a confidential matter committed to him, by 
frankly avowing, that as he found he could not keep the secret 
himself, he transferred it to his friend to retain it for hira. Ex 
elusive talkers are the bores of society ; they generally have it all 
to themselves, and all their own way, for nobody is allowed to 
"divide the honors" with them. Though you know already every 
thing he is saying, you cannot, by any chance, add to his marvel- 
lous stock of information. He is a perfect cyclopaedia of general 
knowledge ; and, of course, is abundantly competent to instruct 
the uncnlightemed wherever he goes. If you essay to relate an 
anecdote or incident, he snatches it out of your mouth, and tells it 
for you, with the accompanying embellishments of his own extem- 
pore wit ; and should you urge, after its recital, that his was a dif- 
ferent version of the story, and seek to rehearse it in your own 
way, he knows the other version as well as you do, and insists upon 
his own repetition. With such an incorrigible talker, it is a serious 
mistake to venture any suggestion of the kind, since one anecdote 
leads by concatenation to a score of others, and thus you unwit- 
tingly get the loquacious locomotive under high-pressure, to your 
discomfit. You run into a like dilemma if you unwarily venture 
to cite a passage from some favorite poet ; by the time you have 
quoted the first line, your interminable talker catehes up the 
second, and not only saves you all further trouble in the matter, 
but rehearses twice as much as you intended, into the bargain. 
In all ordinary cases the luckless listeners fall asleep under the 
dreaded infliction of this tedious and insufferable " exclusive." 

We are, indeed, says an American, a happy, elegant, moral, 
transcendant people. We have no masters, they are all principals ; 
no shopmen, they are all assistants ; no servants, they are all 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 39 



" helps ;" no jailors, they are all governors ; nobody is flogged in 
bridewell, he merely receives the correction of the house ; nobody 
is ever unable to pay his debts, he is only unable to meet his 
engagements ; nobody is angry, he is only excited ; nobody is 
cross, he is only nervous ; lastly, nobody is drunk, the very utmost 
you can assert is, that " he has tarken his wine." 

Another variety of the talkative, is the exaggerator, — one who 
despises the common run of phrases, and deals in grandiloquent 
terms and high-flown metaphors. He is an extravaganza in the 
social circle ; everything he utters is invested with hyperbole and 
glowing imagery : he scorns all colloquial phrases, and regards 
everything below his exalted standard, mean and inexpressive. 
Whatever he has to say must be tinted up couleur de rose, yet while 
his habitual indulgence in superlatives and expletives gives spirit 
and force to his descriptions, it is exceedingly dangerous to admit 
his statements too literally. Even the witty cannot always appre- 
ciate his humor, and matter-of-fact people are at once utterly 
nonplussed at his extravagance. A talker of this class is, however, 
amusing in company, for, after his mind has been wearied by 
abstruse studies, worldly . cares, imaginary ills, or positive griefs, 
such a highly spiced speaker is a capital antidote to ennui. Men 
must relax sometimes, or the consequences would prove fatal to 
their nervous system. That delicate machinery, by the way, has a 
severe ordeal to pass through in the wear and tear of life. Lord 
Brougham once said, no man had any right to a nervous system, 
who was not possessed of two thousand a year ; and we believe he 
was not far from just in his discrimination, for while we pay especial 
regard to the well-being of the stomach, we sadly neglect our more 
sensitive nerves. A little nonsense, therefore, occasionally, may 
not be inadmissible, when it can be thus harmlessly indulged. 
Nonsense is to sense, as shade to light — it heightens effect, making 
what is beautiful in itself still more beautiful by contrast. It is 
like an intended discord in a delicious melody, making the next 
concord the sweeter ; like silent sleep after sorrowful watch- 



40 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



ijQg — the calm that succeeds a storm — like cheerfulness after care 
— ease after anguish — or the sickly olive that gives gusto to old 
port. 

This art of vividly magnifying minor objects into exaggerated 
hnportance, by exhibiting them through a kind of mental micro- 
scope, has a peculiar charm for the fireside or the table. It 
presents things in grotesque and monstrous distortion, which cannot 
fail of exciting our risible faculties. Dean Swift was, perhaps, the 
greatest specimen of this style of writing and talkmg. This habit, 
of exaggerating a statement beyond its exact limits, is one of the 
most common of colloquial misdemeanors. Some souls seem too 
big for their bodies — every thing must be in exienso ; hence they 
transcend the restrictive limits of reality, and bound off into the 
regions of the ideal. Sticklers for matter-of-fact are, perhaps, 
equally tenacious of the opposite extreme ; and they are no less 
obnoxious to good taste : they are as rigidly literal as the former 
are poetical. They evince a false zeal for truth, for they again 
leap beyond its limits, in their eager pursuit of details. With all 
their professed antipathy to exaggeration, they become meanly cul- 
pable in the very thing they repudiate. The man who would 
measure a hair or weigh a feather, is as guilty of au hyperbole as 
he who would transcend the just proportions of truth. Confront 
the two characters, and we see the result to be as we have described: 
the one is a fine precipitate fellow, warm of heart and hasty of 
tongue ; the other, a simple, direct man, who looks at things in 
their just proportions, and is nice even to the smallest fractions 
in all his affirmations. 

There are many minor varieties of the loquacious ; for example, 
the slow-talker, whose drawling accents make the very atmosphere 
drowsy, and whose provoking prolixity is tantalizing to the last 
verge of endurance. Then there is the quick speaker, rushing 
with the impetuosity of a whelming cataract, sweeping all before 
hun, and stunning your ear with his incessant volubflity. We 
might also, refer to loud talkers as among social nuisances, for, 



THE TALKATIVE AND THK TACITURN. 41 



generally speaking, sound, in their case, is a screen for lack of 
sense and modesty — the two essentials of a good talker. There is 
yet another class, who are in the habit of violating good taste and 
decorum by the ever-recurring use of ouir6 and unintelligible 
terms — flowers of speech — exotics from all the living languages, as 
well as the dead. These scorn the usual phrases of our vulgar 
vernacular, however inapt their adoption may be of foreign terms 
in their stead. Carlyle and Emerson may be mentioned as cases 
in point, although, it is true, they indulge rather in a habit of 
Anglicizing German idioms, or torturing their mother-tongue into 
all conceivable distortions. The injudicious and excessive use of 
foreign phrases evinces a very questionable taste, and is charac- 
teristic of pedantry and a love of display, which those who value 
their reputation for scholarship ought scrupulously to avoid. We 
confess ourselves too charitably inclined to exhibit the foibles 
incident to another unfortunate class, who are prone to a fatal 
habit of telling what they have to say inopportunely, or who are 
frequently liable to perpetrate bad puns, and worse jokes, at which 
no one can even force a spasmodic laugh, for we all know Dr 
Johnson's depreciative estimate of their character. They have l)ut 
one exclusive privilege, of which most evince a ready procUvity to 
avail themselves — that of laughing at their own pointless puns. 
Elia defends this right on their behalf in the following wise : 
"That a man must not laugh at his own jest is surely the severest 
exaction ever invented upon the self-denial of poor human nature. 
This is to expect a gentleman to give a treat without partaking of 
it, — to sit esurient at his own table, and commend the flavor of his 
own venison upon the absurd strength of never touching it him- 
self. On the contrary, we love to see a wag taste his own joke to 
his party." 

Having disposed of our garrulous friends, what shall we say of 
the incommunicative ? — those inane beings who so admirably sup- 
ply the lack of statuary in the boudoir or library. Among this 
class are the men of elongated and lugubrious visage, who frown 



42 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



out of existence even tlie scintillation of a smile, and "shut up" 
every facetious mouth, however highly charged it may be with 
intellectual electricity. The tacitm-n, whatever be their minor 
idiosyncracies, are social nuisances ; they damp the ardor, and 
repress the utterances of the heart wherever their influence extends. 
If a man be endued with a tongue and brains, it is fairly to be 
inferred they were designed for use : an incorrigible mute, there- 
fore, sins against himself as well as society. Some persons very 
modestly shelter themselves under the plea that their silence is 
caused by their laborious habit of thinking ; we regard this, how- 
ever, as apocryphal at the best, for any man who has, however 
little, of the Promethian fire in him, must throw off sparks some- 
times. Some of these wordless men vainly seek to atone for their 
provoking silence by assuming an interminable and senseless smile ; 
others, again, sit in stolid indifference, looking as vapid and unim- 
pressible as they probably are in reality. 

There are others, again, who absurdly obtrude themselves and 
their private affau's on the attention of a mixed company : nothing 
can be more mjudicious or indelicate. Others lie in wait for every 
opportunity to proclaim their own adroitness and wit, and are ever 
on the alert to elicit commendation and compliments. Some boast 
then" gift of prescience ; they call a witness to remember they 
always foretold what would happen in such a case, but none would 
believe them ; they advised such a person from the beginning, and 
told him the consequences would be just as they happened, but he 
would have his own way. Others, again, says Swift, have a sin- 
gular weakness or vanity of telling their own frailties and faults : 
they are the strangest men in the world — they cannot dissemble ; 
they own it is a folly — they have lost advantages by it, — but if 
you would give them the world, they cannot help it. 

To preserve a judicious silence is a very essential requisite in 
refined and polite society : this silence is not, of course, sullen or 
supercihous, but graceful and eloquent. Fontenelle is reported to 
have said that " he should leave the world without regret, for it 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 43 



hardly contaiued a single good listener ;" and the days in which 
we live are certainly not much better in this respect. 

Having taken our exceptions to offenders against good manners 
in the matter of conversation, we will now venture to offer a few 
hints for the uninitiated. Conversation is one of the polite arts of 
life, — its end and aim being the cultivation of the graces and 
attractions of the social economy: he that possesses conversational 
powers in the highest degree, therefore, becomes a most eflicient 
agent in imparting pleasure, and in contributing to the improve- 
ment of the social circle. Few acquisitions are of rarer attain- 
ment, ft-om the neglect with which the subject is treated by the 
masses of society. It is not a little remarkable that many of the 
most cultivated minds are found deficient in conversation. Among 
the literati, perhaps the most illustrious and brilliant examples in- 
clude the names of Rogers, the poet, and the late Countess of 
Blessmgton. Two things seem essential to the possession of good 
conversational powers, — a competent knowledge of men and books, 
and a felicitous habit of expression ; the former is to be acquired 
by observation and study ; while the latter is more commonly an 
intuitive gift. Topics upon which to descant are manifold and 
various ; the whole realm of nature and art, the boundless re- 
sources of knowledge, and the numberless incidents, phases, and 
accidents of human life, as well as the myriad forms of imagery 
that people the regions of thought and fancy, — all supply themes 
of interesting discussion. What, for example, could afiTord subjects 
more pleasing or fertile for a quiet and sociable tete-a-tete, than the 
variegated treasures of Flora, the ever-changing and exquisite 
beauties of natural scenery, the investigations of pure science, and 
the accumulated wealth of human lore ? If anecdote and humor 
are the pearls of polite conversation, the above-named constitute 
the pure gold for their setting, reflecting a tenfold splendor. Those, 
therefore, who are au fait at repartee, or who fill up the pauses 
which occur in graver discussions, by brilliant flashes of extempore 
wit, or a piquant story, good-natured sarcasm, or playful satire, 



44 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



acliieve no incoasiderable service in the social gathering. The cir- 
cumstances of time, place, and the character of the company, 
ought, of course, ever to govern the choice of topics, and the man- 
ner and method of their presentation. It would be absurd to ex- 
pound a problem of Euclid to an elderly lady whose sphere of 
attainments never stretched beyond the details of the dormitory or 
the domestic duties of her domicil ; and it would be equally incon- 
sistent to attempt a grave dissertation on the treasures hidden in 
the heart of the earth, to a fair nymph in love, whose mterests lie 
all concentrated and clustered in the devoted heart of her lover. 
Fulsome flattery and all kinds of extravagant compliment, are as 
obnoxious to good taste as the baneful practice of indulging 
badinage, or even personal invective. To a well-balanced and edu- 
cated man, the cultivated society of the opposite sex offers the 
highest possible attractions ; for, in addition to the advantages to 
be derived from the interchange of elevated thought and senti- 
ment, the most fascinating arts and graces are exhibited, which 
exert a reciprocal and powerful influence, imparting a brilliancy 
and charm to every thing that is spoken. If to excel in the art 
of pleasing be the secret of success in that of conversation, com- 
mend us not infrequently to the refining elegance and challeng- 
ing graces of educated female society : in such a school of the art, 
the pupil who should fail of academic honors would assuredly 
prove himself unworthy to share them. Among the most delight- 
ful of mental recreatives may be classed the exhilarating pleasures 
of intellectual intercourse ; they constitute the very life-fluid of 
our social being. 

Hazlitt's remark, that authors were seldom gifted with conversa- 
tional powers, seems to be abundantly verified by fact. He says, 
— " Authors ought to be read, and not heard ; " and as to actors, 
they could not speak tragedies in the drawing-room, and their wit 
was likely to be comedy and farce at a second-hand. The biogra- 
phy of men of letters, in a great measure, confirms this opinion ; 
some of the greatest names in English and French literature, men 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITURN. 45 



who have filled books with an eloquence and truth that defy obli- 
vion, were mere mutes before their fellow-men. Tliey had golden 
ingots, which, in the privacy of home, they could convert into coin 
bearing an impress that would insure universal currency ; but they 
could not, on the spur of the moment, produce the farthings current 
in the market-place. Descartes, the famous mathematician and 
philosopher ; Lafontaine, celebrated for his witty fables ; and Buf- 
fon, the great naturalist, were all singularly deficient in the powers 
of conversation. Mannontel, the novelist, was so dull in society, 
that his friend said of him, after an interview : " I must go and 
read his tales, to recompense myself for the weariness of hearing 
him." 

As to Corneille, the greatest dramatist of France, he was com- 
pletely lost in society — so absent and embarrassed, that he wrote 
of hunsclf a witty couplet, importing that he was never intelligible 
but through the mouth of another. Wit on paper seems to be 
something widely different from that play of words in conversation, 
which, while it sparkles, dies ; for Charles II., the wittiest monarch 
that ever sat on the English throne, was so charmed with the hu- 
mour of " Hudibras," that he caused Limself to be introduced, in 
the character of a private gentleman, to Butler, its author. The 
witty king found the author a very dull companion ; and was of 
opinion, with many others, that so stupid a fellow could never have 
written so clever a book. Addison, whose classic elegance of style 
has long been considered the model, was shy and absent in society, 
preserving, even before a single stranger, stiff and dignified silence. 

He was accustomed to say that there could be no real conversa- 
tion but between two persons, friends ; and that it was then think- 
ing aloud. Steel, Swift, Pope, and Congreve — men possessing 
literary and conversational powers of the highest order — allowed 
him to have been a delightful companion among intimates ; and 
Young says of the latter, that " he was mute in society on some 
occasions, but when he began to be company he was full of vivacity, 
and went on in a noble strain of thought and language, so as 



46 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



to chain the attention of every one to him." Goldsmith, on the 
contrary, as described by his contemporary writers, appeared in 
company to have no spark of that genius which shone forth so 
brightly in his works. His address was awkward, his manner 
uncouth, his language unpolished : he hesitated in speaking, and 
was always unhappy if the conversation did not turn upon hunself." 

There are exceptions to every rule, in the present instance, how- 
ever, they serve but to confirm it. 

Burns was famous for his colloquial powers ; and Gait is 
reported to have been as skillful as the story-tellers of the East, in 
fixing the attention of his auditors on his prolonged narrations. 
Coleridge was in the habit of pouring forth brilliant, unbroken 
monologues of two or three hours' duration, to listeners so enchan- 
ted, that, hke Adam, whose ears were filled with the eloquence ol 
an archangel, they forgot " all place — all seasons, and their change ;'- 
but this was not conversation, and few might venture to emulate 
that "old man eloquent" with hopes of equal success. 

Washington Irving, in the account he has given of his visit to 
Abbotsford, says of Sir Walter Scott, that " his conversation was 
frank, hearty, picturesque and dramatic. He never talked for 
effect or display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of his 
imagination. He was as good a listener as a talker ; appreciated 
every thing that others said, however humble might be their rank 
and pretensions, and was quick to testify his perception of any 
point in theur discourse. No one's concerns, no one's thoughts 
and opinions, no one's tastes and pleasures, seemed beneath him. 
He made himself so thoroughly the companion of those with 
whom he happened to be, that they forgot, for a time, his vast 
superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when all was over, 
that it was Scott with whom they had been on such familiar 
terms, in whose society they had felt so perfectly at ease." 

In conversation, Dante was taciturn or satirical. Gray and 
Alfieri seldom talked or smiled. Rousseau was remarkably trite in 
conversation, — not a word of fancy or eloquence warmed him. 



THE TALKATIVE AND THE TACITCRN. 



41 



Milton was unsocial, and even irritable, when much pressed by 
talk of others. Drydeu has very honestly told us, " My conver- 
sation is dull and slow — my humor is satm'niue and reserved ; in 
short, I am not one of those who endeavor to break jest in com- 
pany, or make repartees." 





FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 



The bright mosaics, that with storied beauty, 

The floor of nature's temple tesselate. — Horace Smith. 



"A PASSION for flowers," writes JVIi's. Hemaus, "is, I really 
think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its 
chilling influence. Often, dm-ing a weary illness, have I looked 
upon new books with perfect apathy, when, if a friend has sent me 
a few flowers, my heart has leapt up to their dreamy hues and 
odors, with a sudden sense of renovated childhood — which seems 
to me one of the mysteries of our being." To a cultivated taste, 
indeed, flowers ever present the rarest attractions, and the most 
fascinating charms. Many-tinted and many-voiced, they are asso- 
ciated with all that we share in the poetry and romance of life :— 



FACTS AND FAKCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 49 



they deck the joyous days of childhood, shedding richest fragrance, 
and reflecting over its ascending pathway their ever-changing and 
gorgeous hues. Buds and blossoms form the tokens of gentle and 
endearing affection, they garnish alike the sanctuary of home and 
the sainted grave, 

Barren indeed were this world of ours, 
Denied the sweet smile of the beautiful flowers. 

Poets and artists have ever delighted to pourtray the charms of 
nature, under whatever phase or aspect she presents them — as 
much when decked in her sQvery sheen, as when arrayed in the 
prismatic hues of the vernal spring — when the meadows are 
gemmed with butter-cups and daisies, and the glorious trees of the 
forest are bursting into new life and beauty. With one excep- 
tion — that of love — no subject has, to a like extent, challenged 
the rich and quaint device of the votaries of the muse. How 
pleasant an hour might we wile away by citations of the plea- 
surable passages of the poets, who have luxuriated over the 
treasures of Flora ! 

The very name is suggestive of all that is fresh and lovely in 
nature. The gems that sparkle in her diadem — the rich em- 
broidery and glittering adornments of her gayest and her simplest 
robes — the pearls, the rubies, the diamonds, the sapphires, the 
gorgeous jewels that enrich and beautify creation — are they not 
sweet flowers ? Who loves flowers ? The highest and the low- 
liest, the rich and the humble, those who are gifted with high 
intellect, and those of limited capacity — all unite in this one sweet 
sense of the beautiful. It is a sad house that has no flowers in it ; 
a hard and harsh soul which can let the summer-time glide away, 
and find no pleasure in looking upon these choicest gifts of nature. 
A poetic fancy will indulge a sweet colloquy with these beautiful 
" terrestrial stars." A contemporary thus cherishes this conceit : — 
"Yes, talk with the flowers ; theh" voice is sweet and musical, 
their language pure and elegant, and all their teachiug gentle, 

3 



50 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



loving and kind. Talk with tlie flowers, and they shall not 
upbraid you. If you are good, they will whisper in low and 
soothing tones of hours gone by — of past joys. The flowers whose 
petals are one by one falling to mother earth, from whence their 
beauty rose, may mind you of some one who early bloomed and 
faded ere the evening came, and the sweet fragrance of those decay- 
ing, withered leaves ascending upward, whence, from sunshine, rain 
and dew, they gathered sweetness, lingers like the memory of the 
lamented one, still sweet and fresh, while the spu'it soars back to 
its Author. 

" Again, if you are in a glad and hopeful mood, some beauteous 
bud will speak in truthful tones of joys in future store, and hope 
will paint a bright to-morrow, when all those lovely tints shall be 
unfolded to admiring, aifectionate eyes, making glad the hearts 
that have long watched for its expanding beauty. So shall you 
watch, lest blight fall upon your opening prospects, and strive to 
ripen and develope your powers in bright colors and strong rich 
verdure, whose fruition shall be all the bud had promised." 

The earth is decked and garnished all over with these little 
gems. They are not only for the adornment of the mountain side, 
the meadow, and the cultivated parterre ; — they make the very 
atmosphere fragrant with their incense. When they fade they 
shed the rich odor of their dying breath, like the sweet memory 
of the loved and lost. Let us gaze awhile on the great book of 
nature, it is delicately and daintily illumined, and very fragrant. 

" There is, to the keen perception of the educated," says an elo- 
quent writer, " a glory in the grass, a splendor in the flower, an 
unearthly beauty in the clouds. To a lover of natui'e, all things 
are beautiful — full of Eden beauty." 

There are spirits in tlie air, 

Genii in the evening breeze, 
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 

As star-beams among twilight trees. 



FACTS AXD FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS, 51 



Flowers are meet objects of our reverence as well as admiration, 
for their ineffable beauty and sweetness, as well as being manifes- 
tations of the wisdom, goodness, and power of Him who has so 
lavishly scattered them over the face of the earth. Flowers have 
not been deemed unworthy of special notice in Holy Writ : in 
Solomon's pastoral, floral allegories are of frequent occurrence ; 
and such is the high estimate of their exquisite beauty, that we 
are told even Solomon, in all his regal splendor, was not arrayed 
like the delicate lily. How many a lesson of wisdom might we 
gather from the study and contemplation of these beautiful and 
radiant creatures, — of trust in the "fatherhood of God," — of mu- 
tual harmony, and reciprocal affection, and of the blissful hopes of 
an endless existence in the " Paradise Regained 1" Our great epic 
poet has described with wondrous power and effect the transports 
of our first parent as his delighted eye first luxuriated over the 
clustered beauties that decked his Eden bowers. His hapless de- 
scendants, although deprived of Eden, yet inherit many of its 
flowers. How vastly inferior the proudest achievements of art to 
the exquisite delicacy disccJVered in the web and woof of flowers ! 
How do their enchanting fragrance, richness, variety and finish of 
coloring, as painted by the Heavenly Limner, no less transcf^nd all 
human skill ! 

How dormant and obtuse must that mind be which fails to de- 
rive a feeling of elevating and refined delight from the contempla- 
tion of these pearly gems that grace the bosom of our mother 
earth, — the jewelry with which Heaven has adorned her 1 Yet 
too many there are, " in the close city pent," for whom these gay 
and brilliant things possess no charms : they prefer the sordid pur- 
suit of gold, to the soul-elevating study of Nature in all her enam- 
elled beauty; yet what can be more deliciously refreshing to the 
vision, than to gaze upon the ever-varying charms of the rich 
parterre ? Oh, what a revenue of pure enjoyment is conferred 
upon the worshippers of Flora 1 



52 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Your voiceless lips, flowers, are living preachers — 

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles, that in dewy splendor 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime." 
! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
Your love sublime. 

Were I, God, in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers and divines. 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 

Woman, from her finer sensibilities and keener appreciation of 
the beautiful, possesses an innate passion for buds and blossoms, 
and these emblems of innocence, grace, and beauty, naturally 
enlist her sympathies. She is, indeed, herself the queenly blossom 
of Paradise, and her peerless charms find their nearest emblems in 
the blushing tints, the nectar sweet?, and glowing beauties of 
Flora. Hence the fitting grace with which she prefers to cull 
from the leafy temple of the goddess the rarest gems to heighten 
her fascinations, rather than costly pearls or the dazzling decora- 
tions of art. 

Flowers, it wUl be recollected, are used for national emblems : 
thus, that of England is the rose, the queen of flowers ; France 
has adopted the lily ; Ireland the shamrock ; and Scotland the 
thistle. Shakspeare, in the "Winter's Tale," makes Perdita thus 
give significancy to them, by distributing her flowers according to 
the respective ages of those to whom she presents them. To the 
old she gives rue and rosemary, which keep all winter ; to those 
of middle ages she offers flowers of summer, such as lavender, 
mint, marjoram, and marigold ; and to the young primrose, lilies, 
violets, and daffodils. Horace compares youth to ivy and myrtle, 
and old age to dried leaves. 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 53 



Leigh Hunt lias the following genial passage touching the per- 
fume of flowers : — 

" Oh, world of mystery everywhere hangs about us and within 
us ! Who can, even in imagination, penetrate to the depths 
of the commonest of the phenomena of our daily life ? Take, 
for instance, one of those pots of Narcissi. We have ourselves 
had a plant of the variety known as soleil d'or, in flower, in a 
sitting-room for six weeks, during the depth of winter, giving forth 
the whole of that time, without (so far as we know) ceasing, even 
during sleep, (for we need hardly tell our readers that plants do 
sleep,) the same full stream of fragrance. Love itself does not 
seem to preserve more absolutely its wealth, while most liberally 
dispensing it I That fragrance has a material basis, though we 
cannot detect it by our finest tests. What millions of millions of 
atoms must go to the formation of even a single gust, as it were, 
of this divine flower-breath ! Yet this goes on, through seconds, 
minutes, hours, days, weeks, and ceases only with the health of the 
flower petals. Where, then, in these petals — these thin, unsub- 
stantial cream-flakes — may we look to find stored up all these 
inexhaustible supplies 1 Where, indeed ? and if they are not 
stored up, but newly created as given forth — is not that even more 
wonderful ? Would that any one could show us the nature and 
modes of operation of such miraculous chemistry." 

The imitative art has ever been devoted to the arrangement and 
combination of these cherished objects. The designs that flowers 
have aff'orded to painting, sculpture, and architecture, with their 
effects upon the mind, also furnish a fruitful theme. 

In the distribution of honors and badges of distinction, Nature 
is generally appealed to : poets were crowned with bays, and con- 
querors with laurel ; and of the several heraldic decorations, many 
of the emblems are derived from nature. On the triumphant 
return of a victorious hero, garlands of gay flowers are wreathed, 
and dispensed by fair hands. There -are certain rural festivals of 
ancient origin, a few of which are still extant in some parts of 



54 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Europe, at which the resources of Flora are called into requisition: 
such as that of the May Queen, the festival of the Rose, Harvest 
Home, etc. 

In tropical climes the treasures of Flora are seen in all their opu- 
lent splendor. A poetic pen has thus portrayed them : — 

"Where to the richest fruits the soil is kind, 

And to a vast array of brilliant flowers ; 
Where is a thymy censor every wind ; 

Where on the torrent's banks crowd forest bowers ; 
Where leaves of plantains spread like generous hands. 

To travelers oflFering cool, delicious loads ; 
Where, far aloft, the palm her crown expands ; 

Stalks of the aloe line the mountain roads, 
Firm sentinels, that watch the centuries flight. 
And challenge them with floral banners bright ; 
The pine tree wears its vesture soft of moss ; 
The passion-flower displays its way-side-cross ; 
The cactus blooming crimson in the sun ; 
Loft, waving vines in shifting beauty run ; 
All plants that in odorous concert bring 
Delight their revel in perennial spring ; 
Myriads of flowers, like gay-dressed suitors, there 
Court with sweet breath the pleased and passive air." 

Let us cull a bunch of fresh violets, and take a glance for a few 
moments at their wondrous beauty. Violets have been called " the 
modest grace of the vernal year :" it is the sweetest flower that 
decks the wood. 

These exquisite little woodland fairies have inspu*ed many pens, 
and many have sung their charms in melodious numbers : but we 
propose to descant upon them briefly in the simpler phrase of a 
lover of nature. Here then is our bunch of freshly-cropped violets. 
Not to say one word about their delicate and most exquisite aroma, 
it is impossible to look into their deep cups without being struck 
with their rare beauty. And we no sooner become impressed 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 55 



with this feeling, tlian we begin to recollect what Shakspearc has 
said about them — what beautiful and passionate pictures they 
have formed, and what loveable spots they nestle in, in the realm 
of song. While wo bend our lingering and curious gaze upon their 
delicate structure, we admire the consummate skill of their Divine 
Artificer. 

To be a lover of flowers, it is not indispensable that one should 
be a floriculturist, or that wc become familiar with their botanical 
names, or vegetable physiology : but it is necessary that we have 
a soul for the beautiful. To love flowers, is to love nature ; and 
what may not the love of nature do for man, when all other 
avenues to his feelings are closed up by selfishness or worldly 
influences ? 

Flowers are always on the sunny side of things ; and we too, 
certainly, should keep there as much as we possibly can. 

The sun 
Smiles on the earth, and the exuberant earth 
Returns the smile in flowers. 

"Happy are they," says Gray, "who can create a rose-tree, or 
erect a honey-suckle ;" and who that is conscious of the beneficial 
influences of cherishing a love of flowers, can fail to respond to the 
sentiment ? Linneeus constructed a dial of flowers, indicative of 
their times of expanding and closing ; so that by plaiiting them in 
such a manner as that at each succeeding hour a blossom should 
unfold : and thus from morning to evening the time was so accu- 
rately expressed, that he seldom needed to have recourse to his 
watch. 

One of the prettiest little flowers, that decks the rural lanes 
and the corn-fields, is the scarlet Pim'pernel ; this small flower and 
the common red Poppy, are the only instances of bright scarlet 
blossoms among British plants. This brilliant color seems to 
require the warm sun of the tropics, since in those countries where 



56 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



great heat prevails, flowers of the most brilliant scarlet hang in 
large clusters npon the trees, or adorn the earth. The pimpernel 
generally flowers in June ; its leaves are of an oval shape, some- 
what spotted ; it opens about eight o'clock, and shuts up its 
blossoms towards noon ; so that should you seek it in your early 
morning walk, you will find only the bright red bud, peeping out 
from its delicate green cup ; and when it unfolds its purple eye to 
the sun, it may seem to remind you that it is time for returning 
to your breakfast. Poets style this flower " the cheerful pimper- 
nel," from the above-mentioned fact' — that it reveals its beauties to 
the eye when the dazzling "king of day" is usually smiling gayly 
in the sky ; upon the approach of rain, it folds itself quite up, and 
from its thus foretelling the farmer the approaching shower, it has 
been called " the poor man's weather-glass." The shrub called the 
Rose of Jericho, which is said to be indigenous to Arabia Petrsea, 
also presents a veiy remarkable instance of this sensibility in 
rainy seasons. Like that interesting class of plants called Polypi, 
which constitute the connecting ludc between the vegetable and 
animal kingdoms, and which, indeed, from their acute sensi- 
tiveness to touch, seem to partake more of the nature and attri- 
butes of the latter : this, and other specimens present a suliject of 
curious inquiry which may well excite the wonder and admiration 
of the student of nature. This rose grows upon stems which are 
not upright, but which spread from their centre over a considerable 
space of ground : the blossoms and leaves fall off together at the 
end of the season, leaving the stems bare, which all approach each 
and close up in a globular form, during damp weather, and again 
spread apart in the returning sunshine. The Evening Priinrose 
discloses its yellow fragrant flowers in the " sweet hour of eve ; " 
and the Marvel of Peru, or Beauty of the night, expands when the 
other flowers are sleeping, and, soon as morning fully dawns upon 
it, folds up its charms in its spiral Irads. There is also a like 
apparent sensitiveness to rain evinced by that beautiful, though 
common flower, known familiarly as the Convolvulus, or Morning 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 57 



Glory : its sweet-scented blossoms, whose fragrance resembles that 
of the almond, are of various delicate hues — purple, white and red, 
mingled with many beautiful semi-tints ; while its bright green 
leaves trail fondly around the nearest object that presents itself for 
support. We are indebted to a recent writer for some other 
interesting facts connected with flowers, among which wc will 
mention the curious phenomenon exhibited by some plants during 
the night. The common Monkshood is said to emit in the dark a 
bright phosphorescent light. 

One of the earliest harbingers of the spring, is the Daisy {Eye 
of Day). Its modest beauties have been celebrated in the verses 
of Chaucer, Wordsworth, Montgomery, and Burns ; and been 
regarded as the emblem of affection. • 

Chaucer's quaint lines read — 

" Of all the floures in the mede 

Than love I most these floures of white and rede. 
Such that men called daisies in our toun, 
To them I have so great affection." 

A poetical superstition is attached to this flower, which is found 
to grace both mountain and meadow, and which Wordsworth 
designates "the pearl of spring, whose home is every where," 
which makes it a test of friendship. It is a custom with simple- 
hearted rustics, when they wish to ascertain whether a professed 
attachment is sincere, for the trysting parties to pull ofi", one by 
one, the white rays of the flowers, saying alternately, " does he 
love me ?" " does he not ?" until they stripped off all the rays of 
the daisy. If the first appeal happens to occur at the last ray, 
the conclusion is believed to be auspicious. 

The contemplation of flowers is a theme rife with interest to 
all classes : the child, fascinated by their exceeding beauty, is de- 
lighted to gather them into a bright bouquet ; the fair maiden 
seeks to employ the expressive symbols to reveal the gentle 
emotions of her heart ; while the lover of nature luxuriates over 

?,* 



58 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



their variegated charms, or scans with inquisitive gaze their mani- 
fold mysteries. 

" In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 

And tell in a garland their loves and cares ; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, 
On its leaves a mystic language bears." 

Well might Isaak Walton exclaim, as he reclined on a primrose 
bank, and bent his enraptured eye upon the enamelled meadow 
before him, "I regard them as Charles, the Emperor, did Flo- 
rence ; that they are too pleasant to be looked upon, except on 
holidays." 

" Heaven wills these simple things should give 
Lessons to teach us how to live." 

Sharon Turner remarks, that plants with few and small leaves 
depend chiefly on the soil ; those with many and large ones, more 
on the atmosphere. It is a singular fact, that flowers of different 
colors sometimes flourish on the same root. This is to be seen 
sometimes in the Sweet William and the Marvel of Peru, both 
which occasionally bear white and colored blossoms commingled. 
The same peculiarity is also observable in some plants whose color 
is deemed so constant as to have become proverbial, as to have 
become proverbial, as in the instance of the Blue Harebell, so often 
alluded to in poetry as descriptive of the eye of some gentle 
maiden. The part from which the aroma proceeds is various in 
different plants : most frequently it exists in the blooming corolla ; 
it is thus with the honeysuckle, the hawthorne, and a thousand 
others. Sometimes it is found in the herbage, as the sweet-brier, 
the sweet woodruff, or the ground ivy ; it is even occasionally in 
the root. Eastern flowers possess a richer fragrance than those 
of other climes ; and the Orientals are also more passionately fond 
of these " bright stars of the earth." All odoriferous plants are 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWKRS. 59 



valued by them, but the rose is their peculiar favorite; the natural 
and artificial varieties of this universally pet blossom are very 
numerous and ))cautiful. 

Perfumes were much in vogue with the ancient Hebrews, the 
Persians and Romans, as well as many other nations of later times : 
the former have Moses for their chronicler in this respect, and 
reference is made to the use of spices and aromatics by Mary 
Magdalene, on the morning of the Resurrection, for the purpose 
of embalming the body of the Saviour. So pungent is the scent 
of some flowers, that persons of a nervous temperament are unable 
to inhale it without acute pain ; some will be affected with head- 
ache by the smell of the mignionette, the hawthorn, the lily, the 
lilac, and the laburnum. Flowers kept in a confined room are 
considered injurious to health, especially during night, when they 
have a different effect upon the atmosphere than when acted upon 
by light : they emit nitrogen gas, while during the day they 
exhale oxygen. The fragrance yielded by some plants when 
crushed, has suggested many beautiful images to poets : Moore 
alludes to this circumstance when referring to the only consolation 
in son'ow, he says : 

" And thou can'st heal the broken heart. 
Which like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 
Breathe sweetness out of woe.' 

Many very lovely flowers grow in the water, rearing their heads 
and some of their leaves above the surface of the stream ; there 
are also, it will be remembered, numerous species of sub-marine 
plants. Under the shadow of the drooping willow, the fan- white 
water-lily blooms in unsullied elegance, bending with the slightest 
breeze, or softly reclining upon the smooth surface of the rivulet. 
Botanists designate this frail and delicate flower Nymphiea, because, 
like the nymphs or naiads of the classic poets, it loves to haunt the 



60 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



streams, and delights in the shadow of the foliage that haugs over 
them. 
Then we have — 

" That blue and bright-eye floweret of the brook, 
Hope's gentle gem — the fair forget-me-not" 

And the queen of spring-blossoms, the sweet-scented Anemone ; 
nor let us forget " the pearl-like buds, in roseate light displayed," 
of the odorous Mail, the Meadotv- Sweet, the Cystus, and the azure 
JIarebdl, among the blossoms of the woods. Next to the regal 
Moss Rose, we have the choicest of Flora's treasures, the almost 
endless varieties of the Carnation. One of the most boastful and 
admired ornaments of our modern gardens is the Cactus, of which 
a varied profusion may be seen : the same may be said of the 
Dahlia. (The Dahlia is a native of the marshes of Peru, and was 
named after Dahl, the celebrated Swedish Bdtanist. It is more 
than thirty years since its introduction into Europe, and is now the 
universal favorite of florists. The number of known varieties is 
five hundred,) the Verbena, the varieties of the Aster, Geranium, 
Heliotrope, the Oleander, and last, though not least, the Passion- 
Flower, the Hyacinth, and the Jasmine. 

Louis XVIII. on his restoration to France, made in the park in 
Versailles the fac-simile of the garden at Hartwell ; and there was 
no more amiable trait in the life of that accomplished prince. 
Napoleon used to say that he should know his father's garden in 
Corsica blindfolded, by the smell of the earth ! And the hanging 
gardens of Babylon are said to have been raised by the Median 
Queen of Nebuchadnezzar on the flat and naked plains of her 
adopted country, to remind lier of the hills and woods of her 
childhood. We need not speak of the plane-trees of Plato — 
Shakspeare's mulberry-tree — Pope's willow — Byron's elm ? — ^Why 
describe Cicero at his Tnsculum — Evelyn at Wotton — Pitt at 
Ham Common — "Walpole at Houghton — Grenville at Dropmere ? 
Why dwell on Bacon's " little tufts of thyme," or Fox's geraniums ? 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 61 



There is a spirit in the garden as well as iu the wood, and the 
"lilies of the field" supply food for the imagination as well as 
materials for sermons. 

JMany interesting particulars might be adduced touching the 
botanic history of ornamental plants, — for instance, the almost 
infinite variety of their leaves and blossoms, — which latter, accord- 
ing to modern science, are but a higher development of the former. 
Some leaves are smooth, others are hairy on their surface : which 
latter kind, when laden with dew, glisten like diamonds iu the 
sun's ray. Leaves are, in the vegetable kmgdom, what lungs are 
in the animal : this may be readily ascertained by placing a young 
vine-leaf over a wine-glass, when, if it be a hot day, you will very 
soon find the glass quite damp, and in the course of a short time 
the moisture, from the emitted perspiration, will run down in drops. 
It is the chemical action of light upon leaves and stems that causes 
their green color : if kept a long period iu darkness, they would 
become white or colorless. If exposed to the light of a caudle, 
at night when they are contracted, they will partially unfold 
again : this is especially the case with the varieties of the Sen- 
sitive-Plant. 

As already intimated, in Eastern nations, which are character- 
ized by a luxurious devotion to beauty and elegance of taste, 
flowers are commonly used as expressions of sentiment and feeling 
— such as love, friendship, anger, disdain, remorse, and the like. 
To them floral language is ever eloquent. It is said that in Persia, 
the Tulip, — whose blossom iii its native country is scarlet, while 
the centra of its glowing cup is black, — is indicative of ardent 
affection ; and the love-sick swain who would send this floral mis- 
sive is understood to convey the idea that, like the flower, his face 
is glowing with the intensity of passion, while his heart is con- 
sumed by its fires, as a coal. The gift of a Rose fully expresses 
also the matured progress of affection ; while despair is signified 
by a l)ouquet formed of Myi'tle entwined with the Cypress and 
Poppy : Bergamot and Jasmine, both very fragrant, are beauti- 



62 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



fully emblematic of the sweets of friendship. The symbolical 
language of Flora may well be deemed the most natural and 
eloquent of languages : hers is an oratory that speaks in perfumed 
silence, in which there is a tenderness and passion, and even a 
buoyancy of gay mirthfulness, unknown to other vocabularies. No 
spoken word can rival the delicacy of sentiment to be inferred from 
a chaste flower ; and a like efficacy is imparted to the same expe- 
dient when we would pour the soothing balm of sympathy on the 
stricken and sorrowing spirit. But who can doubt the signifi- 
cancy of flowers ? They speak in gentlest whispers, in soft, per- 
fumed sighs. Who would not listen ? " Poetry, like truth," says 
Ebenezer Elliott, "is a common flower: God has sown it over 
the earth, like daisies, sprinkled with tears or glowing in the sun, 
even as He places the Crocus and the March frosts together, and 
beautifully mingles life and death." This is indeed a beautiful 
conceit, most beautifully expressed. But what need have we to 
cite authorities to vindicate the fair fame of flowers ? — their pre- 
eminent distinction has long since passed into a proverb. How 
many of our colloquial idioms derive their origin from, and owe 
their significancy to, flowers ! We are accustomed to designate 
the pet of the family circle as " the, flower of the family ;" and when 
we would characterize any highly wTOught specimen of rhetoric, 
we should describe it as elegant, ornate, and flowery. Flowers 
were not only used for personal decoration among the Romans ; 
they were made the accessories of religion. Their priests, altars, 
and even their sacrifices were adorned with these delicate emblems. 
Their statues were also crowned with them : hence Yenu§ is some- 
times represented wearing roses, Juno with the lily, and Ceres 
with her hair entwined with wheat and poppies. The bridal 
wreath is still the beautiful emblem of innocence and truth. The 
burial as well as the bridal have alike sought their choicest emblems 
among the fairest symbols of beauty and decay — the flowers. The 
Cypress, in all nations an emblem of sorrow, was used by the 
Romans to deck the dwellings of the deceased — because if once 



FACTS AND FANCIES ABOUT FLOWERS. 



63 



cut down, that plant will not spring up again ; it had, therefore, a 
true significance in their case, since they believed death to be an 
eternal sleep : with a more cheering faith, the evergreen, in our 
times, has usurped its stead. The custom of garnishing the graves 
of the departed with flowers is a felicitous one — full of eloquent 
appeals to the heart of sorrowing survivors, for while they form 
expressive emblems of the frailty of the present, are they not also 
the radiant harbingers of our future estate of being. 





A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 

" Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs ; 
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes ; 
Being vext, a sea nourished by lovers' tears. — 
What is it else '.' a madness most discreet, 
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet." — Shakspeare. 

" Oh '. magic of love ! unembellished by you, 
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue ? 
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art, 
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart ?" — Moore. 



Few topics have more frequently enlisted the attention of wri- 
ters and readers, than that which we have chosen for a little free 
discussion. Although Cupid cannot be said to be young, he is not 
in the least the worse for wear, — his locks are still golden, his 



A MOXOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 65 



checks glowing:, and the Ijright kindling glance of his eye is as 
radiant as ever — while his votaries are even more numerous than 
they have been in any previous age of the world : and we there- 
fore venture to hope that our theme may not prove altogether 
uninteresting at least to our fan* friends. First let us premise that 
we do not intend to inflict on the reader a grave homily on this 
delicate subject, but rather a gossipping sketch of the felicities and 
infelicities of the estate matrimonial and its counterpart — celibacy, 
with an accompaniment of illustrative facts and anecdotes. Mar- 
riage has been designated an episode in the life of man, — an epoch 
in that of woman : it is certainly a most important crisis in the 
history of both, for it generally causes a strange metamorphosis in 
habit and character. 

" The happy minglement of hearts 

Where, changed as chymic compounds are. 
Each with his own existence parts. 
To find a new one happier far." 

The ancients exalted domestic affection into a household god, 
and one of the most beautiful antiques now preserved, is a gem 
representing the draped figure of a woman worshipping this deity, 
as it kneels upon a pedestal. Croly wrote the following sweet 
lines upon it : — 

" Oh ! love of loves ! to thy white hand is given 

Of earthly happiness the golden key ! 
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even. 

When the babes cling round their father's knee : 
And thine the voice that on the midnight sea 

Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home. 
Peopling the gloom with all he wants to see. 

Spirit ! I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come, 
And on its altar closed — for ever closed thy plume !" 

It may not be generally known that, according to BuxtorPs 
Hebrew Lexicon, the primeval name. Eve, is derived from a 



66 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



root which signifies to talk : — a fact which may possibly account 
for the origin of the phrase — "a woman's privilege." We con- 
fess we do not see why they should be denied the exercise of 
their prerogative, for they generally talk with more "pith, point 
and pathos," and their bird-like, dulcet voices sound far more 
musical than do those of the opposite sex. But where all the 
graces vie with each other for preeminence, it is vain for us to 
signalize a single charm : in the words of Anacreon Moore, we may 
exclaim — 

" Woman, dear vroman, still the same, 
While lips are balm and looks are flame, 
While man possesses heart or eyes. 
Woman's bright empire never dies ! " 

It has been said that while Adam was created without Paradise, 
Eve was created within the sacred enclosure ; and that conse- 
quently the former always retains something of the original earth- 
iness of his origin ; while woman, 

" The precious porcelain of human clay," 

exhibits more of the refining process, both as to her physical and 
moral nature. 

" If," says Mathew Henry, " man is the head, she is the crown. 
Woman was formed of a rib out of the side of Adam, to be equal 
with him, — under the arm to be protected, and near his heart to 
be beloved." The world has, in the main, endorsed the sentiment 
of this worthy divine, although it has been ungraciously insinuated 
by others, that, since she emanated from a rib, and nobody ever 
saw one quite straight, it is absurd to except to find a woman 
otherwise than crooked herself ; and that it is useless to attempt 
making crooked things straight. But this, as we have already 
intimated, is a calumny upon the fair being whom Byron com- 
pares to 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRTMONY. 6T 



" The rainbow 'mid the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints the morrow with prophetic ray ! " 

Soutbcy says, " take away love, and not physical nature only, 
but the heart of the moral world would be palsied : 

' This is the salt unto humanity, 
That keeps it sweet.' " 

How many an apostrophe have the poets indited to love ; they 
have been ever mart}TS to the cause of Cupid, willingly endur- 
ing the most exquisite torments on his behalf. In a virtuous 
heart, however, its influence is sedative, sanative and preserva- 
tive — a drop of the true elixir, no mithridate so eifectual against 
the infection of vice. Love, it is said, invented the art of tracing 
liknesses, and thereby led the way to portrait painting. Some 
painters it has certainly made ; whether it ever made a poet 
may be doubted ; but there can be no question that under its 
inspiration more bad poetry has been produced than by any or all 
other causes. On the other hand, if love has produced the worst 
of poets, that same simple love has made beyond comparison the 
best of letter writers. In love poems, conceits are distilled from 
the head ; in love letters, feelings flow freshly from the heart. 
Assuming that these free utterances are genuine, how would that 
"excellent mystery" — wedded life, irradiate the world with its 
blessed influences, were the generous impulses and sentiments of 
courtship, but perpetuated in all then' exuberant fullness during 
the sequel of marriage. 

The dream of life indeed can last with none of us, — 

" As if the thing beloved were all a saint. 
And every place she entered were a shrine ;" 

but it must be our own fault, when it has passed away, if the real- 
ities disappoint us ; they are not " weary, stale, flat and unprofi- 



68 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



table," unless we ourselves render them so. We need not seek for 
human authorities, the divine ordinance dates its origin in Eden, 
and comes down to us sanctioned by Heaven itself, as rife now 
with hallowed influences as at its first institution in the infancy of 
time. From the marriage relation spring those gentle charities 
and kindly offices of domestic affection, which temper the stern 
austerities and selfish maxims of the world ; while they serve also 
to help our faith in a future blissful state of being of which they are 
the type and harbinger. It is the sanctuary of the domestic circle, 
which hnks heart to heart in a hallowed compact, whence swell up 
those genial affections of our better nature, that fertilize the barren 
wastes of humanity and bless the world. If there be a sacred spot 
on earth, over which angels may be supposed fondly to linger, and 
scatter the sweet incense of heavenly blessing from their hovering 
wings, it must be the sanctuary of a consecrated home. The surest 
safeguard against interruptions to domestic concord, is the habit 
of wearing a smiling face ; it will prove the panacea for every ill — 
the antidote for every sorrow ; and who that has felt the luxury of 
thus conferring happiness, and chasing from the brow a shadow 
and the heart a grief, would grudge the effort for so rich a boon ? 
What spectacle can be imagined more touchingly beautiful or 
impressive than that which the marriage ceremony presents ? To 
witness the voluntary consecration of two intelligent beings on the 
altar of mutual faith and affection — the union of their lives and 
fortunes in a solemn covenant which naught but death may dis- 
solve, is indeed a scene of surpassing interest. That many instan- 
ces of an unfelicitous kind have occurred, cannot be denied, but it 
is no less true that in the great majority of cases the marriage 
union has been jDroductive of the happiest results ; and were its 
claims always properly appreciated, such beneficient effects would 
ever follow in its train. True it is, as society is constituted, mar- 
riage becomes somewhat of a lottery — for all its votaries are either 
the victims of Cupid or cupidity ; in either case, they are under 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 69 



the blinding influence of passion, and consequently but little sub- 
ject to the control of reason. 

An instance in which marriage was literally a lottery, was 
exemplified in a recent fi-eali practiced by a certain youthful swain 
in France, who, relying upon his personal attractions mainly, actu- 
ally put himself up as the one grand prize in a lottery of ten thou- 
sand tickets of the value of two dollars each. This novel matri- 
monial expedient created a wondrous sensation among the belles of 
the French capital ; and the result was, that all sorts of specula- 
tion went on among the fair, who eagerly bought up the tickets. 
A fair young damsel, who speculated merely for the frolic of the 
thing, became the holder of the prize ticket : the lucky youth ten- 
dered her the pecuniary proceeds of the lottery — $20,000 ; they 
became a case of " love at first sight," and within the brief limits 
of the day, Hymen settled their destiny, and they " twain became 
one flesh." 

The happy marriage, says Steele, is, where two persons meet 
and voluntarily make choice of each other, without principally 
regarding or neglecting the circumstances of fortune or beauty. 

" Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 
We, who improve his golden hours. 

By sweet experience know 
That marriage, rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below." 

"What singular spectacles — we should say, pairs of spectacles — 
are occasionally to be seen in our popular promenades — ^ladies of 
towering altitude alUed to dwarfish bipeds, who seem as though 
they were designed rather for the effect of contrast than equality ; 
while again similar lofty specimens of the masculine are to be met 
with, peering into the upper air, dragging by their side a like 
abbreviated instance of the feminine ; seemingly to indicate that 
in resigning themselves to the stern alternative of espousing that 



TO SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



(falsely so called) necessary evil — a wife, they had sagely resolved 
upon selecting the least. Hood's humorous lines in " Faired not 
Matched" will occur to the reader : — 

" Of wedded bliss 

Bards sing amiss, 
I cannot make a song of it ; 

For I am small, 

Mj wife is tall. 
And that's the short and long of it. 

When we debate 

It is my fate 
To always have the wrong of it ; 

For I am small, 

And she is tall, 
And that's the short and long of it. 

She gives to me 

The weakest tea, 
And takes the whole Souchong of it ; 

For I am small, 

And she is tall. 
And that's the short and long of it. 

Against my life 

She'll take a knife, 
Or fork, and dart the prong of it : 

For she is tall. 

And I am small 
And that's the short and long of it." 

Among fantastic cases of this kind, might be mentioned the 
ludicrous project of Frederick of Prussia, who, in the hope of 
securing an army of giants, formed the idea of compelling unions 
between the tallest of the sexes in his dominions. On a certain 
occasion the king happening to meet a remarkably lofty young 
lady, he alighted from his horse, stopped her, and desired her to 
deliver a letter to the commanding officer of his crack recriment. 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 11 



This missive was to the effect that the bearer was to be nistantly 
married to the tallest grenadier in his service. The young lady, 
however, being somewhat terrified, and not comprehending the 
nature of the transaction, handed the letter to a diminutl\'e old 
woman, by whose intervention she escQjied the arbitrary destiny. 

It is recorded of a wealthy saddler of London, that he made it 
conditional in his will that his daughter should be saddled with a 
saddler for life, or else be disinherited. Accordingly, as it hap- 
pened that the young Earl of Halifax was found among her 
suitors, and a candidate for her splendid dowry, his lordship 
actually was obliged to bind himself to an apprenticeship of seven 
years to the craft, in order to the attainment of his wishes. This 
was a worse case of affliction, we should think, upon the nerves of 
the distinguished suitor, than even Jacob's fourteen years' appren- 
ticeship for his favorite Rachel. 

Instances, not a few, of disastrous marriages might be quoted, 
but as their rehearsal would not excite any pleasurable sensations, 
we shall refrain from the unwelcome task: we may, however, refer 
to the case of an adroit spinster who was cute enough to prevent 
such an apparent catastrophe. A young Scotchman having wooed 
a pretty buxom damsel, persuaded her to accompany him to a 
justice of the peace, for the pui-pose of having the nuptials cele- 
brated. They stood very meekly under the operation, untU the 
magistrate came to that clause which imposes the necessity of sub- 
jecting the lady to the rule of her husband. " Say no more about 
that, sir," interrupted the half-married claimant, " if this hand 
remains upon this body, I'll make her obey me." " Are we mar- 
ried yet ?" eagerly ejaculated the exasperated maiden, to the ratifier 
of covenants between man and woman. " No," responded the 
wondering justice. " Ah, very well, we will finish the rest another 
time," she continued, and in a moment more she had vanished, 
leaving the astonished swain to console himself for the escape of 
the bird he thought he had so securely caught and caged. As a 
counterpart to the foregoing, we might cite the instance of a cer- 



12 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



tain couple of rustics who presented themselves to the priest as 
candidates for the holy estate of matrimony. On the conclusion 
of the ceremony the redoubtable husband, who began to have 
sundry misgivings, at what he had done, said, "Your reverence 
has tied the knot tightly, I fancy ; but, under favor, may I ask, if 
so be you could untie it again ?" "Why, no," replied the domine, 
" we never do that on this part of the consecrated ground." 
"Where then ?" eagerly inquired the disconsolate victim. "On 
that,'' was the response, pointing to the church yard ! 

A curious legend is related of Eginhard, a secretary of Charle- 
magne, and a daughter of the emperor. The secretary fell 
desperately in love with the princess, who at length allowed his 
advances. One winter's night his visit was prolonged to a late 
hour, and in the meantime a deep fall of snow had fallen. If he 
left, his foot-marks would betray him, and yet to remain longer 
would expose him no less to danger. At length the princess 
resolved to carry him on her back to a neighbormg house, which 
she did. It happened, however, that from the window of his 
chamber, the emperor witnessed this novel proceeding ; and in the 
assembly of the lords on the following day, when Eginhard and his 
daughter were present, he asked what ought to be done to a man 
who should compel a king's daughter to carry him on her shoulders 
through frost and snow, on a winter's night ? They answered that 
he was worthy of death. The lovers became alarmed, but the 
emperor, addressing Eginhard, said, " Had'st thou loved my daugh- 
ter, thou shouldst have come to me ; thou art worthy of death, 
— but I give thee two lives : take thy fair porter in marriage, fear 
God, and love one another." This was worthy one of the greatest 
of princes : and also worthy the imitation of many a purse-proud 
aristocrat of later times. 

Balzac, the French novelist, exhibits another example of eccen- 
tricity in matrimonial affairs. According to a Parisian corres- 
pondent, the arrival of this celebrated author from Germany 
caused an immense sensation in certain circles, owing to the 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 13 



romantic circumstauees connected with his marriage. When 
Balzac was at the zenith of his fame, he was traveling in Switzer- 
land, and had arrived at the inn just at the very moment the 
Prince and Princess llanski were leaving it. Balzac was ushered 
into the room they had just vacated, and was leaning from the 
window to observe their departure, when his attention was arrested 
Ijy a soft voice at his elbow, asking for a book which had been left 
behind upon the window seat. The lady Avas certainly fair, but 
appeared doubly so in the eyes of the poor author, when she inti- 
mated that the book she was in quest of was a pocket edition of 
his own works, adding that she never traveled without it, and that 
without it she could not exist! She drew the volume from beneath 
his elbow, and flew down stairs, obedient to the screaming sum- 
mons of her husband, — a pursy old gentleman, who was already 
seated in the carriage, railing in a loud voice against dilatory 
habits of women in geuei'al, and his own spouse in jjarticular ; — 
and the emblazoned vehicle drove off, leaving the novelist in a 
state of self-complacency the most enviable to be conceived. This 
was the only occasion upon which Balzac and the Princess Hanski 
had met, till his recent visit to Germany, when he presented him- 
self — as her accepted husband. During these long intervening 
fifteen years, however, a literary correspondence was steadily kept 
up between the parties, till at length instead of a letter containing 
literary strictures upon his writings, a missive of another kind — 
having a still more directly personal tendency, reached him from 
the fair hand of the princess. It contained the announcement of 
the dejnise of her husband — the prince, that he had bequeathed to 
her his domains, and his great wealth, — and consequently, that she 
felt bound to requite him in some measure for his liberality, and 
had determined upon giving him a successor — in the person of 
Balzac. It is needless to state that the delighted author waited 
not a second summons ; they were forthwith united in wedloi-k, at 
her Chateau on the Rhine, and a succession of splendid fetes cele- 
brated the auspicious event. 

4 



'14 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



The story of the marriage of Lamarthie is also one of romantic 
interest. The lady, whose maiden name was Birch, was possessed 
of considerable property, and when passed the bloom of youth she 
became passionately enamored of the poet, from the perusal of his 
" Meditations ;" for some time she nursed this sentiment in secret, 
and being apprised of the embarrassed state of his affairs, she 
wrote him, tendering him the bulk of her fortune. Touched with 
this remarkable proof of her generosity, and supposing it could 
only be caused by a preference for himself, he at once made an 
offer of his hand and heart. He judged rightly, and the poet was 
promptly accepted. 

Those who wish to become acquainted more at length, with 
"the loves of the poets," we refer to Mrs. Jamieson's pleasant 
book on that delicate subject. It may suflBce to glance at the 
eccentric conduct of Swift, in his love matters. His first flame, 
whom he fantastically christened Varina, he deserted, after a seven 
years' courtship : the next he styled Stella, who, although beauti- 
ful in person, and accomplished, after a protracted intimacy, he 
secretly married in a gar"den, although he never resided under the 
same roof with her, and never acknowledged the union till the 
day of his death. The third became a similar victim to his selfish 
hard-heartedness, which, it is said, caused her death. With all his 
wit and genius, such wanton brutality, must ever reflect the deep- 
est disgrace upon his moral character, especially as contrasted 
with his claims as a religious functuary. The following case looks 
somewhat squally, and indeed possesses so much of the marvellous 
as to challenge belief It is that of a gentleman who confesses he 
first saw his wife in a storm, took her to a ball in a storm, courted 
her in a storm, married under the same boisterous circumstances, 
and lived with her during a like condition, but buried her in pleasant 
weather. The union of hearts and hands in holy wedlock has given 
birth to many luminous poetic effusions. The briefest exposition 
we remember to have seen, is the following, which was doubtless 
intended merely as a love-missive between two ardent souls, whose 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 15 



elective affinities — if spirits may commingle — resolved themselves 
into a perfect spiritual amalgamation. Says our love-sick swain : 

" My heart to you is given, 
Oh, do give yours to me; 
We'll lock them up together, 
And throw away the key." 

That brief episode of romance, courtship, is the spring- tide of 
life — the May of human existence : fond memory clings to it with 
cherished and lingering devotion ; for, if at no otlier period, the 
heart then reveals its most generous sympathies, and the habitual 
selfishness of our nature is forgotten. If the month posterior 
to the nuptial ceremony — the honeymoon is so richly freighted 
with happiness, it is more than the great poet affirms of the 
period anterior to that event, although another of the muse's 
favorites, .* ndrew Mar veil, inclines to a somewhat contrary sen- 
timent. 

Emerson has some poetic and forcible words upon this subject 
of love ; he says, " Be our experience in particular what it may, 
no man ever forgets the visitations of that power upon his heart 
and brain, which created all things new ; which was the dawn in 
hira of music, poetry, and art — which made the face of nature 
radiant Avith purple light, the morning and night of varied enchant- 
ments — when a single tone could thrill the heart, and the most 
trivial circumstance associated with one form, is put in the amber 
of memory — when we become all eye, when one is present — all 
memory, when one is gone." 

The intervention of an ecclesiastical functionary was not deemed 
indispensable to a marriage, until the Council of Trent in 1409. 
The celebrated decree passed in that session, interdicted any mar- 
riage otherwise than in the presence of the priest, and at least two 
witnesses. But before the time of Pope Innocent III (1118,) 
there was no solemnization of marriage in the church, but 
the bridegroom came to the bride's house, and led her home 



T6 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



to his own, which was all the ceremony then used. Banna 
were first directed to be published in the year 1200. 

Many strange apologies have been urged for marriage. Gothe 
said he married to obtain respectability. Wilkes wedded to please 
his friends. Wycherly, in his old age, took his servant girl, to 
spite his relations. The Russians have a story of a widow who 
was so inconsolable for the loss of her husband, that she took 
another to keep her from fretting herself to death. 

The origin of the w^ord " honey-moon," is from a custom of the 
Tentines, an ancient people of Germany, who drank mead, or 
metheglen, a beverage made with honey, for thirty days after 
every wedding. 

Love has been compared to debt : both keep their captives 
awake at night, or disturb their repose with anxious nocturnal 
visions, and their busy thoughts at day are no less solicitously 
engaged. It is, moreover, suggested that love has been styled 
" the tender passion," from its softening effects on the brain, and 
also because it affects principally " the softer sex." Some have 
proved themselves impervious to its genial influences ; take, for 
example, the case of Newton, whose peiichant for star-gazing, 
mathematical abstractions, and his pipe, was sufficiently evinced by 
his taking the fair hand of his lady-love — not to devote it to the 
gentle pressure of affection, but to convert the forefinger to the 
degrading purposes of a tobacco stopper ! Men of literature, 
science and philosophy, in ancient and modern times, have, fi'om 
their recluse and ascetic tendencies, in the main, been either 
opposed to* the social relationship, or been infelicitous in their 
matrimonial alliances. Probably this has been, in part, superin- 
duced by the flatteries and attentions of the world at large ; and 
yet, it is somewhat singular how men, moving so prominently in 
society, and courted so generally by the fair, should not have had 
adroitness enough to escape entanglement in the matrimonial 
meshes of that busy little fellow, Cupid, who is ever going about, 
seeking whom he may ensnare. Viewed as a divinely instituted 



A MOiVOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY, 77 



ordinance, marriage ceases to be a matter of option ; and those, 
therefore, who seek to contravene so express a command, are 
justly held amenable for the act. Apart from its endearing asso- 
ciations and imnnuiitics, it is constituted the great conservative 
means of human existence ; without it the world would soon 
become a waste, and the beneflcent purposes of its great Author 
be frustrated. This sentiment we accordingly find to have obtained, 
as by instinct, in all ages. Fines were first levied on unmarried 
men, in Rome, about the middle of the fourth century ; and when 
pecuniary forfeitures failed to ensure obedince to connubial edicts, 
celibacy was visited by penal punishments. 

Concerning the origin of the usual accessories of marriage, we 
have little to adduce : the ring is certainly an expressive and 
fitting emblem of the perpetuity of the compact ; and the bride- 
cake and customary libations form no less significant symbols of 
the nectar sweets and intoxicating pleasures which it is designed 
to confer upon its votaries. 

We remember to have read somewhere an account of a most 
exemplary instance of conjugal fidelity and devotion, which, if not 
apocryphal, is certainly without a parallel. A young nobleman of 
Genoa, who held large estates in Corsica, whither he used to repair 
every few years to regulate his affairs, had married a beautiful 
creature named Monimia, an Italian. They lived for some years 
in undiminished felicity, till, alas for the mutations of time, the 
devoted husband was compelled to defer no longer a visit to the 
land of his possessions. During his absence, the island being at 
the time in a state of insurrection, a report reached the ears of the 
anxious spouse, that he had fallen a victim to the popular fury and 
revolt. About the same time, as he was passing along the harbor, 
he overheard some sailors, who had just arrived, talking of the 
death of a Genoese nobleman's wife, then absent from the repub- 
lic. The name of his beloved wife was at length mentioned, when 
all suspicion yielding to the painful conviction that it was indeed 
her of whom they spoke, he became so overpowered with grief that 



t8 



SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



he swooned away. On his recovery he determined to lose no time 
in repairing to his home, in order to ascertain the certainty of the 
report. Strange as it may appear, simultaneously with this, the 
equally distressed wife resolved upon a similar procedure. They 
both took ship — one for Corsica, the other for Genoa ; a violent 
storm overtook both vessels, and each was shipwrecked upon a 
desolate island in the Mediterranean. Marimi's ship first made 
land, and the disconsolate widower, wishing to indulge his grief, 
wandered into the embowered recesses of a neighboring wood. 
Soon afterwards the Genoese ship landed Monimia, with one of 
her maids ; actuated by similar emotions, she bent her sorrowing 
steps to the same retreat. They each heard the other complaining 
of their bitter fate ; when, moved by a mutual curiosity to see 
their companion in grief, — -judge of their amazement and rapturous 
surprise, when they instantly recognized in each other the dear 
object of theh" ardent solicitude and affection. One long, strain- 
ing and passionate embrace, and they immediately expired! Their 
remains were conveyed to Italy, and repose, in their dreamless 
sleep, under a magnificent mausoleum. 

Among the Romans, the month of June was considered the 
most propitious for the celebration of the nuptial rite : May was 
said to be ominous of the premature demise of one of the parties. 

The peculiar characteristic ceremonies incident to the marriage 
festival in various countries, we do not stay to notice, the subject, 
being familiar to the reader. The feature which seems, after all, 
the great distinction among various nations, in the affair of mar- 
riage, is that of monogamy and polygamy — a single wife or hus- 
band, or a plurality of the endowment. What the primal law 
may have been, it is not difficult to divine ; if we admit the 
example of our illustrious progenitor — Adam : in him we have a 
legal precedent. 

The empire of woman in the scale of being, is no longer a dis- 
puted claim. 

" Heaven's last, best gift to man " 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 19 



receives the homage of the human heart, — she is loved and 
cherislied, as the angel of peace and hope, difl'using a halo of light, 
joy and blessedness, making Home, a little Eden. 

As to the name spinster, it may be remembered, that it dates its 
origin from the fact that in olden times, no maiden being deemed 
eligible to matrimonial honors till she had spun her own domestic 
wardrobe : — an evidence that our grave progenitors regarded such 
matters as involving less of romance than reality — a method, we 
may add, that more modern sagacity has deemed it expedient to 
a great extent to reverse. 

The human family is divided into two classes, the married and 
the single ; the former have been often deemed legitimate objects 
for the raiUery and jest of the advocates of celibacy, and it is but 
fair that the opposite party should be permitted a share of the like 
pleasantry. As a specimen of the former, take the following lines 
of a most inveterate womanhatcr, one of the early printers who 
flourished during the first half of the sixteenth century. The 
extraordinary production in which this curious satire occurs, is 
entitled " The scole-howse, wherein every man may rede a goodlie 
prayer of the condycyons of women" &c. This erudite scribe thus 
apostrophizes the sex : — 

" Trewly some men there be 
That lyve always in great horreure, • 
And sayth it goth by destynie, — 
To hang, or wed, — both hath one houre ; 
And whether it be ! I am well sure 
Hanging is better of the twaine, — 
Sooner done and shorter payne ! " 

It is admitted, on all hands, to be both a delicate and difficult 
thing to pry into a woman's age ; and the embarrassment becomes 
increased in the exact ratio of its advance, especially in the case 
of an unmarried lady. The precise epoch at which the epithet old 
may be admissable, is no less involved in mystery. A fugitive 



80 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



passage from a contemporary pen, witli as much of poetry as chi- 
valry in its spirit, fortunately comes to our aid in the present 
dilemma. Who the gallant scribe may be, we know not, but here 
the paragraph is, and the reader will take it for what it is worth : 

" Eve, it is well known, was sixteen years old when she was 
awakened at the side of her husband. Sixteen years old, say ancient 
writers and that so boldly, that they must have seen Eve's 
register written on the lilies of Paradise. Now, women — who 
have nine times out of ten more curious rabbinical learning than 
the mean envy of our sex will allow them — women, inheriting the 
privilege from their first parent, believe that, after a certain time, 
they have a just right to let their first sixteen years go for nothing ; 
and so they sink the preliminary sixteen with a smile, counting 
with mother Eve their seventeenth as their first real birthday. 
And they are right. For it deducts from your woman of five-and- 
forty all that she cares to lose, giving her a fair start with Eve, 
and pegging her back to full-blown nine-and-twenty. And, indeed, 
it is impossible that any really charming women should be a day 
older." 

It is a singular fact, that the age of but one woman is mentioned 
in the Bible at the time of her death. Therefore, it is best not to 
be inquisitive about the age of women. There are some ladies 
whose extreme sensibilities or frigidity induces them to make deli- 
berate choice of a life of single-blessedness, in spite of all that love- 
sick swains may urge to the contrary. Such, among the ancients, 
were the vestal virghis, and those who ministered at the temples 
of Diana and Minerva. Some, seek to rush into matrimony, with 
sucli impetuosity, that they frighten away all sensitive suitors, in 
their fatal attempt to do all the wooing on their own account. 
Others, again, from a feeling of over fastidiousness, vainly expect- 
ing to find the angehc in the human — foolishly forego many an 
excellent chance of a prize in the matrimonial lottery, till the wheel 
of fortune will turn no more. The forlorn attempt, by the aid of 
cosmetic's, gold chains, and other bijouterie, to supply the lack of 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 81 



beauty's dimpled smiles, and the ruddy hues of health, challenges 
the pity of all beholders. 

" There 's nothing half so sweet in life, 
As Love's yoitng dream ;" 

and yet trouble is often caused by the intervention of one or both of 
the parents, or else some flaw in the ohjed of the " heart's fond 
idolatry" just peeps out on the very eve of consummation. 
Parents, too frequently, and most perversely, on such occasions, 
pass into petrifactions — callous to all the glowing emotions of the 
arch godling, and become invested with a most stern and rigid 
determination to denounce all love-scrapes as "juvenile indiscre- 
tions," which demand the full force of their grave sagacity to dis- 
courage. These two latter classes of disappointed nymphs seem to 
be devoted to the annihilation of their most cherished hopes of 
connubial happiness, by the irrevocable decrees of the fates ; they, 
therefore, are richly deserving alike of our sympathy and respect. 
With wonderful assiduity, they resort to every expedient to avert 
the unwelcome issue, but in vain ; "love's sweet vocabulary" has 
been exhausted, and the charms, divinations and necromancy of 
Venus herself, have been called into requisition, but potent as 
they usually are, without the desired effect in their behalf. We 
have been accustomed to associate Cupid with simply his bow and 
quiver full of arrows ; but the queen of love, it seems, can invoke 
to her aid much more varied and irresistible artillery for capturing 
the citadel of the heart. To enumerate in full detail these appli- 
ances of woman's art, would startle the credulity of the unsus- 
pecting reader. 

Neither the " gentle moon," nor good old St. Yalentine, the 
tutelar divinities of the tender passion, have in their case done 
their office; who, therefore, can wonder, after such an expenditure 
of effort and occasionally enduring patience on their part, that our 
forlorn fair ones should become the victims of ennui — or that their 
once jubilant and joyous features should become tinged with an 



82 SALAf) FOR THE SOLITARY. 



expression of melancholy. Females generally are supposed to be 
infallible. A man frequently admits he was in the wrong, but a 
woman never — she is only liable to be miss-taken. 

Wordsworth thus laconically describes a model woman : — 

" A perfect woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still and bright 
AVith something of an angel light." 

Having indulged our rather free discussion upon the eccen- 
tricities of old maids, we now come to canvass the claims, and 
portray the peculiarities of their counterpart — the old bachelors. 
We hear much of the merry old bachelor, that he is devoid of 
care, that he is everywhere the centre of a charmed circle, and 
that he is in a word, a being envied by all, pitied by none. Even 
Lord Bacon, among others of the literary and learned, insists that 
mankind is indebted to the unmarried and the childless, for its 
highest benefactions in the world of science and song. "They 
are," he adds, " the best of friends, the best masters, and the best 
servants." The verdict of society has, however, changed since 
the days of that sage philosopher, for who does not know that the 
sentiment has long since, by common consent, been reversed. 

Old bachelors have been styled unproductive consumers ; scissors 
with but one blade ; bows without fiddles ; irregular substantives, 
always in the singular number and objective case ; unruly scholars, 
who, when told to conjugate, always decline. 

Some wag thus apostrophizes the old bachelor : — " What a 
pitiful thing an old bachelor is, with his cheerless house, and his 
rueful phiz, on a bitter cold night when the fierce winds blow, 
when the earth is covered with snow. When his fire is out, and 
in shivering dread, he slips 'neath the sheets of his lonely bed. 
How he draws up his toes, all encase-d in yarn hose, and he buries 
his nose 'neath the chilly bed clothes ; that his nose, and his toes, 
still encased in yarn hose, may not chance to get froze. Then he 



A MONOLOGUE ON MATRIMONY. 83 

puffs and he blows, and says that he knows no mortal on earth 
ever suffered sueh woes ; and with ah's ! and with oh's I with his 
limbs to dispose, so that neither his toes, nor his nose, may be froze. 
To his slumbers in silence the bachelor goes. In the morn when 
the cock crows, and the sun has just rose, from beneath the bed- 
clothes, pops the bachelor's nose, and as you may suppose, when 
lie hears how the wind blows, sees the windows all froze, why 
back 'neath the clothes, pops the poor fellow's nose, for full well he 
knows, if from that bed he rose to put on his clothes, that he'd 
surely be froze." 

Few topics have been made so fruitful a theme of badinage and 
sarcasm by the wits, as that of marriage. If the old bachelor is 
said to become bearish in his selfishness, a man of the opposite 
class during courtship is thought to exhibit a strong resemblance 
to a goose; and when this incipient stage is exchanged for the 
estate matrimonial, he is honored with the epithet, sheepish. Some 
have indulged their vein of irony in verse, a curious specimen of 
which we subjoin ; it evinces as much ingenuity as wit, for it 
admits of being read two ways, to convey a directly opposite 
sentiment. We transcribe it according to what we consider its 
true meaning ; but in order to make it tell the reverse, it will be 
necessary to alternate the lines, reading the first and thurd, 
then the second and fourth : — 

" That man must lead a happy life 
Who is directed by a -wife ; 
Who's freed from matrimonial claims. 
Is sure to suffer for his pains. 

Adam could find no solid peace 
Till he beheld a woman's face ; 
When Eve was given for a mate 
Adam was in a happy state. 

In all the female race appear 
Truth, darling of a heart sincere : 
Hypocrisy, deceit and pride 
In woman never did reside. 



84 



SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



What tongue is able to unfold 
The worth in woman we behold ? 
The failings that in woman dwell 
Are almost imperceptible. 

Confusion take the men, I say, 
Who no regard to women pay, 
Who make the women their delight 
Keep always reason in their sight." 




CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 

" Books are the immortal sons deifyine their sires." — Plato. 

"Books written when the soul is at springtide, 
When it is laden like a groaning sky 
Belore a thunder-storm, are power and gladness, 
And majesty and beauty. They seize the reader 
As tempests seize a ship, and bear him on 
With a wild joy. Some books are drenched sands, 
On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, 
Like a wrecked orgosy. What power in books ! 
They mingle gloom and splendor, as I've oft, 
In thund'rous sunsets, seen the thunder-piles 
Seamed with dull fire and fiercest glory-rents, 
They awe me to my knees, as if i stood 
In presence of a king." — Alexander Smith. 

With what rapt enthusiasm will the confirmed bibliomaniac 
pounce upon, and pour over the scarce legible pages of some 
antique mouldering manuscript ; or clutch, with miser grasp, the 
musty cover of his favorite black-letter tome of the olden time. 
This feeling, though peculiar in its intensity to the class referred to, 
is yet possessed in degree by most who prefer any claims to a lite- 
rary taste. An attachment or veneration for books — for books 
as books — if not a conclusive test of all mental refinement, is at 
least its rarely absent concomitant. In the companionship of 
books how many immunities do we enjoy, which are denied us in 
our intercourse with men ; — with unobtrusive modesty, they tres- 
pass not upon us unbidden guests, nor do they ever outstay their 
welcome. Yet it must be admitted with a writer of the past cen- 
tury, that books, like friends, should be few and well chosen, and 
then like true friends we shall return to them again and again, 
well knowing they will never fail us, never cease to instruct, never 



86 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



cloy. Hazlitt has indorsed this sentiment : he says, " I hate tf 
read new books : there are twenty or thirty vokimes that I havi 
read over and over again, and these are the only ones I have any 
desire ever to read at all. When I take up a book I have read 
before, I know what to expect : the satisfaction is not lessened by 
being anticipated : — I shake hands with, and look our old, tried 
and valued friend in the face, — compare notes, and chat the hours 
away." When it is remembered that books present us with the 
quintessence of the most cultivated minds, freed from the alloy of 
human passion and weakness, and that they are the media of our 
acquiring the closest proximity and communion with the spirits of 
t;he great and good of all ages, it cannot surprise us that books 
should become such universal favorites. With the historian, for 
instance, we lose sight of our own common-place monotonous exist- 
ence as we become fired with the enthusiasm of the apparently 
more noble and illustrious achievements of the mighty dead ; or 
traverse with the poet, the glowing fields of his own ideal world, 
peopled with the bright creations of fancy ; while in our more 
sober mood we gather from the grave teacher of ethics the collec- 
tive wisdom of all time, whence we may learn the true nobleness 
of our destiny. " Talk of the necromancer of old," says an eloquent 
writer, " with his wand, his charms, and his incantations ; what is 
he to an author ? His charm is, that we lift the cover of his 
book ; his incantation is its preface — his wand the pen ; but what 
can equal their power ? The spell is upon us ; the actual world 
around us in gone." Honor, then, to those gifted ones who can 
thus delight and instruct us : no praise or reward can be overpaid 
to them while they are amongst us, nor any homage too great 
when they are passed away. 1 be works of an author are his 
embalmed mind ; and grateful to the student's eye are the well- 
understood hieroglyphics on this mental mummy-case that tell of 
the worthy preserved within. What was the extolled art of the 
Egyptians to this? Mind and matter — the poet and the mon- 
arch — Homer and king Cheops ! 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 8t 



" There they reign 
(In loftier pomp than working life had known,) 
The kings of thought ! — not crowned until the grave, 
When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb, 
The beggar Homer mounts the monarch's throne ! 

Who of us can tell 

AVhat lie had been, had Cadmus never taught 

To man the magic that embalms the thought — 

Had Plato never spoken from his cell. 

Or his high harp blind Homer never strung ? — 

Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspeare sung ? " 

" If there be one word iu our language," says a modern essayist, 
"beyond all others teemhig with delightful associations, Books is 
that word." At that magic name what vivid retrospections of 
by-gone years — what summer days of unalloyed happiness, when 
life was new — rush on the memory. Who, in recalling the past, 
does not delight to refer to the pleasures he has experienced in the 
perusal of some favorite author ? Such incidents occur to most, 
and they constitute bright episodes in the drama of life. Who, in 
early youth, has not been lost to all external things in the rapt 
enjoyment of those delectable emanations of genius — The Arabian 
Nights, Robinson Crusoe, and the PilgrivCs Progress, — books of 
such singular interest and versimilitude, as to render them no less 
the favorites of all ages and conditions ? Books are the living 
mementoes of the master-spirits that sway the empire of mind ; 
they are 

" The assembled souls of all that men hold wise." 

The moral advantages derived from a love of books are of the most 
ennobling and refining tendency ; the passion for reading, while of 
itself the most innoxious, humanizes and harmonizes all other pas- 
sions. "Books are a guide in youth and an entertainment for 
age," says an old writer ; " they support us under solitude, and 
keep us from becoming a burden to ourselves. They help us to 
forget the crossness of men and things, and compose our cares and 



S8 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



our passions, and lay our disappointments asleep. When we are 
weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing 
of peevishness, pride or design in their communications." 

They may be defined as the depositories of thought. They are 
the fruits and flowers which intellectual husbandry culls from the 
fields of imagination and reflection, well-springs from the fountains 
of truth, or the pearls and precious metals that are produced from 
the mental crucible. Deprived of these treasuries of knowledge 
and wisdom, we should pine for that literary aliment which is as 
essential to our mental economy as is animal food to our physical 
well-being. Books constitute the electric chain that connects and 
circulates the mental magnetism of our social economy. They 
are the links that unite the past with the present, and spread 
out before us the collective intelligence of all time. Says an old 
poet — 

" Books are a part of man's prerogative, 

In formal ink they form and voices hold, 
That we to them our solitude may give, 
And make time present travel that of old." 

Good books beguile the sad and sorrowing of their griefs, and 
especially the Book of books, that binds both worlds, and conducts 
the patient pilgrim, as did the pillar of cloud and fire the Israelites 
of old, to the promised land. 

" Our religion itself is founded in books," says Bartholin, and 
without them God is silent. Justice dormant. Physic at a stand. 
Philosophy lame, Letters dumb, and all things involved in Cim- 
merian darkness." 

" A book," continues another writer, " is the most astonishing 
of all productions; the ultimate reach and highest finish of intel- 
lect ; the utmost attainments of the arts ; the wizard of mysterious 
speech, which the astonished Red man, who admires nothing else, 
holds to his ear, that it may whisper there its strange disclosures 
to the eye of the Pale-face; that sublime invention by which man 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 89 



approaches nearer to angels than by auglit else he has accom- 
plished; the miraculous attainment of speaking to the' eye and 
embodying thought to the senses." 

A book, again, has been styled a microcosm; a little world of 
itself; the intellectual expression of its author. Tupper affirms 
that an author's mind reigns dominant in his book; in proof of 
which, he cites the instance of Scott, whose life, he urges, naturally 
jiroduced his earlier romances. Southey, Shelley, and Wordsworth 
also furnish like evidence. Byron, in his " Corsair," " Childe 
Harold," and "Don Juan," has left us unequivocal proofs of the 
horo-author. Shakspeare, Petrarch, and others, among poets, 
and many writers of fiction, perhaps, might be added to the list. 

How potent and enduring is the influence of a genuine book I 
Ages after its author has ceased to write, his recorded thoughts 
will continue to awaken responses in the bosoms of the living. 
Says the author of " Felham,"— 

" The past but lives in words ; a thousand ages 
Were blank, if books had not evoked their ghosts, 
And kept the pale, embodied shades to warn us 
From fleshless lips." 

Books are our household gods; and we cannot prize them too 
highly. They are the only gods in all the mythologies that are 
ever Ijeautiful and unchangeable; for they betray no man, and love 
their lovers. " I confess myself an idolator of this hterary religion, 
and am grateful for the blessed ministry of books. It is a kind of 
heathenism which needs no missionary funds, no Bible even, to 
abolish it; for the Bible itself caps the peak of this new Olympus, 
and crowns it with sublimity and glory. Amongst the many 
things we have to be thankful for, as the result of modern discov- 
eries, surely this of printed books is the highest of all ; and I for 
one, am so sensible of its merits that I never think of the name of 
Guttenberg without feelings of veneration and homage. I no 
longer wonder, with this and other instances before me, why in 



90 SALAD J<OR THE SOLITARY. 



the old days of reverence and worship, the saints and benefactors 
of mankind were exalted into a kind of demi-gods, and had worship 
rendered to their tombs and memories: for this is the most natural, 
as well as the most touching, of all human generosities, and springs 
from the profoundest depths of man's nature. Who does not love 
John Guttenberg, — the man that with his leaden types made the 
invisible thoughts and imaginations of the soul visible and readable 
by all, and secured for the worthy a double immortality ? The 
birth of this person was an era in the world's history second to none 
save that of the advent of Christ. The dawn of printing was the 
outburst of a new revelation, which, m its ultimate unfoldings and 
consequences, are alike inconceivable and immeasurable. I some- 
times amuse myself by comparing the condition of the people 
before the time of Guttenbei'g, with their present condition, that 
I may fix the idea of the value and blessedness of books more 
vividly in my mind. It is an occupation not without profit, and 
makes me grateful and contented with my lot. In these reading 
days one can hardly conceive how our good forefathers managed 
to kill their superfluous time, or how at least they could be satis- 
fied to kill it as they did. A life without books, when we have 
said all we can about the honor and nobility of labor, would be 
something like heaven without God; scarcely to be endured by an 
immortal nature. And yet this was the condition of things before 
Guttenberg made his far-sounding metallic tongues, which reach 
through all the ages that have since passed away, and make us 
glad with their eloquence."* 

We should tell nothing new to the reader at all conversant with 
the pleasant and curious antiquities of bibliography, were we to 
refer to the early materials and fabric of books, — the Egyptian 
papyrus plant, or the Herculaneum MSS., or the waxen tablets of 
the Greeks and Romans, written with the stylus, which has 
afforded to our vernacular its two widely different terms — style 

* Essays by January Searle. 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 91 



and stillctto ; or of the metals which were sometimes used for 
inscribing ; or of the skins first prepared at Pergamus, (parch- 
ment,) which the Romans, in their luxurious days, used to mauu- 
factm'e in yellow and purple to receive the characters in liquid gold 
and silver — a mode continued by the monks in later days, and 
specimens of which yet exist, executed in gorgeous style. 

Among curious ancient relics still extant, may be mentioned 
the small fragment of writing on bark, about ten centuries old, 
which is in the Cottonian Library. In his curious chapter 
on early jNISS., D'Israeli gives the following ludicrous anec- 
dote, illustrative of the pious horror in which the classics were 
held by the monks. To read a profane author was deemed 
by the communites not only a very idle recreation, but even 
regarded by some as a grave offence. To distinguish them, 
therefore, they invented a disgraceful sign : when a monk inquired 
for any pagan author, after making the general sign they used in 
their manual and silent language when they wanted a book, he 
added a particular one, which consisted in scratching under his 
ear, as a dog is accustomed to do with his paw, " because," said 
they, " an unbeliever is compared to a dog I" In this manner they 
expressed an itching for those dogs Virgil and Horace. Notwith- 
standing the odium with which the writings of these despised 
heathens were treated by some, there were others of a later date 
to be found willing to become their possessors at enormous cost ; 
even the transfer of an estate was not withheld to secure the boon ; 
while the disposal of a manuscript was considered an event of such 
importance as to require a public record. Louis XI., in 1471, was 
compelled to pledge a hundred golden crowns in order to obtain 
the loan even of the MSS. of an Arabian scril^e named Rasis. 

Numerous other instances might be cited of a similar class, dur- 
ing the middle ages. For example, Stowe informs us that, in 1274, 
a Bible in nine volumes, finely written, "sold for fifty markes," 
something like £34 of that time, when wheat averaged 35. id. per 
quartern, and ordinary laboring wages were \d. per diem. This 



92 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



Bible was afterwards bought by the Earl of Salisbury, after hav- 
ing been taken from the King of France at the battle of Poictiers. 
The Countess of Anjou is also said to have paid for a copy of the 
Homilies of Bishop Huiman two hundred sheep, and other articles 
of barter. 

Parnarme, writing to the King of Naples, says, "you lately 
wrote me from Florence that the works of Titus Livius are there 
to be sold, in very handsome books, and that the price of each is 
one hundred and twenty crowns of gold. Therefore I entreat your 
majesty that you cause the same to be bought ; and one thing I 
want to know of your prudence, whether I or Poggius have done 
best, — he, that he might buy a country house near Florence, sold 
Livy, which he had writ in a very fine hand, or I, that I might 
purchase the books, have exposed a piece of land for sale ?" 

In Spain, books were so exceedingly scarce about this time, that 
one and the same Bible often served for the use of several Monas- 
teries. And even the Royal Library at Paris down to the four- 
teenth century possessed only four of the classic authors, — Cicero, 
Lucan, Ovid and Boethius. 

Previous to the invention of printing, block-books were not 
uncommon. Raised words were cut on a block of wood, impres- 
sions from which were taken by means of simple pressure ; and in 
this way was produced the Biblia Pauperum, or " Poor Man's 
Bible," of the fourteenth century. It consisted of about forty 
leaves of texts bound together, and was intended, probably, either 
as a help to the preacher, or as a catechism for young people. 
From this simple process, a similar one to which is still in use in 
China, arose the first idea of moveable types, and to Guttenburg 
we probably owe the invention of the art of printing. It was a 
great step from the old block-books of rude and imperfect con- 
struction, to that of moveable types, though the first that were 
used were rough and ungainly enough. The invention of printing 
took place in the fifteenth century, (1437, it is believed,) though 
the exact year has never been ascertained. It has been variously 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 93 



ascribed to Faust, his soii-iu-law Peter SchoefFer, and John Guten- 
berg, — to the last of whom, however, the credit of the main 
idea is now generally accorded. These three celebrated men lived 
in the German city of Mentz, or Mayence, on the confluence of the 
Rhine and the Maine ; and their first experiments in printing from 
moveable types were made in a house called the "Zum Jungen," 
ever since known as the " Printing Office." 

Few, while perusing the pages of a pleasant book pause to think 
how many skillful hands have been busied in its curious fabrication, 
or how many hours, or months, or years of studious toil have been 
devoted by its author to its mental preparation. Its mere mechan- 
ism is worthy of note. Its paper is produced from a beautiful 
fibrous plant, called linum, or flax ; the leaf of which is " rotted," 
and, passing through certain processes, becomes cotton cloth ; this 
again is reduced to a fluid pulp, is then dried and pressed, and 
becomes paper. The " thoughts that breathe and words that 
burn" are spelt, letter by letter, by the compositor, and the pages 
of the volume receive their impress by the agency of steam. In 
this, its chrysalis state, the book is submitted to the several pro- 
cesses of folding, sewing, and gluing, previous to its being put into 
covers, when it receives its decorations from the finisher. This 
complex creation of head and hand is a most cunning and delicate 
piece of handicraft. It is that necromancy by which the pearls 
and gems of genius are transmuted into the literary currency, and 
thus they become the common property of mankind. It has both 
a bodily form and an intellectual life, that diffuses abroad the light 
of intelligence by its lurainious lines. 

In early times, we read of a Saxon king who gave away an 
estate of eight hundred acres for a single volume, cr>titled Cosmo- 
graphy, or the History of the World. The exceeding paucity of 
books in those days will account for the extraordinary premium at 
which we find them generally estimated. A book was often 
entailed with as much solemnity as the most valuable estate. 
Thus, at the commencement of a breviary of the Bible, there is a 



94 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



memorial by the donor : " I, Philip, late Bishop of Lincoln, give 
this book, called Petrus de Aureolis, to the new library about to 
be built in the church of Lincoln ; reserving the use and possession 
of said book to Richard Fryerby, clerk and prebendary of Milton, 
to hold in fee, for the term of his natural life ; and afterwards to 
revert to the said Library, or its keepers for the time being, faith- 
fully and without delay." There is another curious extract we 
had marked, respecting the formalities observed on the purchase of 
a book. It is from Peter the Lombard's Liber Sententiarum, and 
reads as follows : " This book of sentences belongs to M. Rogers, 
arch-deacon of Lincoln, who bought it from Geoffrey, the chap- 
lain, brother of Henry, vicar of Northalkington, in ye presence of 
master John de Lee, master John de Living, Richard of Luda, 
clerks, Richard ye almoner of said vicar, and many others ; and ye 
said arch-deacon gave this boke to God and St. Oswald, to the 
friar and the convent of Barden," Books were deemed of such 
value in these times, that they were often pledged to learned soci- 
eties, upon which a deposite was required. Oxford had a chest 
for books thus pledged, which if not redeemed by a given day, 
became the property of the University. The price of books wus 
so high that persons of moderate fortunes could not afford to pur- 
chase them. In the year 1174, Walter Prior, of St. Swithin, at 
Winchester, purchased of the monks at Winchester, Bede's Homi- 
lies and St. Austin's Psalter, for twelve measures of barley and a 
pall, on which was embroidered in silver the history of Birinas 
converting a Saxon king. About the year 1255, Roger de Insula, 
Dean of York, gave several Latin Bibles to the University of 
Oxford, on condition that the students who perused them should 
deposit a cautionary pledge. In 1299, the Bishop of Winchester 
borrowed of his Cathedral Convent of St. Swithin, at Winchester, 
the Bible with marginal notes, and gave a bond for the return of 
it, drawn up with great solemnity. The Prior and Convent of 
Rochester declared that they would every year pronounce the sen- 
tence of irrevocable doom on him who should purloin or conceal a 



CURIOUS AND COSTLV BOOKS. 95 



Latin translation of Aristotle, or even obliterate the title. Among 
the statutes of St. Mary's church in 1446, is one, " that no scholar 
should occupy a book in the library above an hour or two, at 
most." 

The Pentateuch and the history of Job are the most ancient 
books in the world ; and in profane literature the works of Homer 
and Hesiod. The first book known to have been written in our 
own vernacular was "The Confessions of Richard, Earl of Cam- 
bridge," temp. 1415 ; and the earliest English ballad is supposed 
to be the " Cuckoo Song," which commences in the following obso- 
lete style : 

" Sumer is icumen in 
Lhud6 sing cuccu, 
Groweth sed, and bloweth med, 
And sprigth ye vid6 nu: 
Singe cuccu " 

Among the earliest illuminated MSS., we may mention the 
renowned Codex Argenteus, so named from its being written in 
liquid silver upon violet-colored vellum. It is a magnificent speci- 
men of its kind, and is further remarkable as being the only ex 
tended specimen of the Maeso-Gothic known to exist. It exhibits 
a very close resemblance to printing, although executed nearly a 
thousand years prior to the discovery of the art. This choice lite- 
rary relic was first discovered in the Benedictine Abbey of Wor- 
den, in Westphalia, about the year 1587 ; it subsequently passed 
into the possession of Queen Christine of Sweden, then into that 
of Vossius, and was finally puTchased by a northern Count, Gubriel 
de la Gardie, for £250, and by him presented to the University 
of Upsala. 

Within a few years, an ancient MS. copy of a portion of the 
New Testament, Avritten also in the Francic language, has been 
discovered at Rheims Cathedral. Its date^is slated to be about 
the eleventh century ; and it is supposed to have been used in 



96 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



1 



admiaistering the coronation oath to the Kings of France. About 
the latter part of the seventh century, we find reference made by 
Bede to a magnificent copy of the Four Gospels, having been done 
in letters of the purest gold upon leaves of parchment, purpled in 
the ground and colored variously upon the surface, for the decora- 
tion of the church at Ripon, at the instance of the famous Wilford. 
The chronicler speaks of it as a prodigy, and we may infer from 
this its rarity in those times. So costly a mode of producing 
manuscripts could not have become general in any age ; accord- 
ingly, we find these magnificent specimens were expressly execu- 
ted for the nobles and princes of their times, or the higher digni- 
taries of the Church. An instance of this is to be seen in the 
superb Prayer Book, of a like description with the foregoing, with 
the addition of its binding, which was of pure ivory, studded with 
gems, and is yet extant, we believe, in the celebrated Colbertine 
library, founded by Charles the Bald. In the middle ages even, 
the bishops bound books. With the monks, it was a common 
employment. There were also trading-binders, called ligatores, 
and they who sold the covers were called scrutarii. There are 
many missals now in existence, with covers of solid silver gilt. 
Gold, relics, ivory, velvet, large bosses of brass, and other expen- 
sive, adornments, were bestowed upon church-books, and those 
intended for royal and great personages. Some of these manu- 
script copies of the Sacred Scriptures were, it is well known, 
further embellished with elaborately-executed miniatures and 
paintings. 

We next meet with the magnificent Bible, presented by his 
favorite preceptor, Alcuin, librarian to the archbishop of York, to 
the great Charlemagne, after he had learned to read and write; 
(for, although among the wisest men of his age, he even com- 
menced his educational course at the tender age of forty-five.) 
This remarkable copy of the Bible was in folio size, richly bound in 
velvet; its embellishments were of the most superb description, its 
frontispiece being brilliantly ornamented with gold and colors, and 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 9t 



its text relieved by emblematic devices, pictures, initial letters, etc. 
This curious I'clic, which was in fine preservation, was sold by 
Evans, in London, it may be remembered, in 1836, and produced 
tlie sum of £1,500, or $7,500. The dififerent libraries of Italy are 
said to comprise many curious specimens. In that of St. Mary, at 
Florence, may be seen a superb copy of the entire New Testament, 
written on silk, including the liturgy, etc. At the end, the fol- 
lowing- occurs in the Greek character: " By the hand of the sin- 
ner and most unworthy mark ; in the yeare of the worlde, 7840;" id 
est. A. D. 1332. 

In our bibliographical researches, we notice many striking illus- 
trations of the indefatigable perseverance and ingenuity of the 
middle ages. One of the most conspicuous instances of the kind 
upon record, is that of Guido de Jars, who devoted upwards of 
half a century to the production of a manuscript copy of the sacred 
Scriptures, beautifully written and illuminated. He began it in 
his fortieth year, and did not finish it until his ninetieth, (1294.) 
Few who have inspected such rare specimens of monkish taste and 
toil, can fail to be struck with their exceeding beauty. Indeed, 
as the delighted eye traverses these skillfully-wrought productions 
of the ancient limners, or cons over the thrilling story of the heroic 
doings it records, traced out in the quaint gothic character 
scarcely less characteristic of those times, we cannot but frankly 
confess our indebtedness to the illuminations of these so-called 
dark ages. 

One of the most celebrated books in the annals of bibliography, 
is the richly illuminated Missal, executed for John, Duke of Bed- 
ford, Regent of France, under Henry VI.; by him it was pre- 
sented to that king, in 1430. This rare volume is eleven inches 
long, seven and a half wide, and two and a half thick; contains 
fifty-nine large miniatures, which nearly occupy the whole page, 
and al)ove a thousand small ones, in circles of about an inch and 
half diameter, displayed in brilliant borders of golden foliage, with 
variegated flowers, etc. ; at the bottom of every page are two lines 

6 



98 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



in blue and. gold letters, which explain the subject of each minia* 
ture. This relic, after passing through various hands, descended 
to the Duchess of Portland, whose valuable collection was sold at 
auction, in 1186. Among its many attractions was the Bedford 
Missal, A knowledge of the sale coming to the ears of George 
III., he sent for his bookseller, and expressed his intention to 
become the purchaser. The bookseller ventured to submit to his 
majesty the probable high price it would fetch. " How high ?" 
exclaimed the king. " Probably two hundred guineas," replied 
the bookseller. " Two hundred guineas for a Missal 1" exclaimed 
the queen, who was present, and lifted her hands up with astonish- 
ment. "Well, well," said his majesty, "I'll have it still; but 
since the queen thinks two hundred guineas so enormous a price 
for a Missal, I'll go no further." The biddings for the Royal 
Library did actually stop at that point; a celebrated collector, 
Mr. Edwards, became the purchaser by adding three pounds 
more. The same Missal was afterwards sold at Mr. Edwards' 
sale, in 1815, and purchased by the Duke of Marlborough, for the 
enormous sum of i£63l 15s. sterling. 

Amongst the numerous, rare, and costly relics contained in the 
library of the Yatican, is the magnificent Latin Bible of the Duke 
of Urbino; it consists of two large folios, embellished by numerous 
figures and landscapes in the ancient arabesque, and is considered 
a wonderful monument of art. There are also, by the way, some 
autograph MSS. of Petrarch's " Riim" which evince to what an 
extent he elaborated his versification. The mutilated parchment 
scroll, thirty-two feet in length, literally covered with beautiful 
miniatures, representing the history of Joshua, ornamenting a 
Greek MSS. bearing date about the seventh century, is, perhaps, 
the greatest literary curiosity of the Vatican. The Menologus, 
or Greek Calendar, illustrated by four hundred rich and brilliant 
miniatures, representing the martyrdom of the saints of the Greek 
Church, with views of the churches, monasteries, basilics, is also 
curious, as presenting specimens of the painting of the Byzantium 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 99 



school, at the close of the tenth century. It contains also a fine 
copy of the Acts of the Apostles, in letters of gold, presented by 
Charlotte, Queen of Cyprus, to Innocent VIII.; an edition of 
Dante, exquisitely illuiniuated with miniature paintings by the 
Florentine school; these pictures are of about the ordinary size of 
modern miniatures on ivory, but far surpassing them in delicacy 
of finish. 

The practice of illuminating and decorating manuscripts was in 
vogue in Ireland as early as the seventh century. In the subse- 
quent age there were some remarkable for their artistic beauty. 
If they were defective in perspective and in harmony of color, they 
were at least conspicuous for their delicacy and skill in design. 
These beautiful memorials of the middle ages, moreover, afford 
glimpses of the manners and customs of those times which the 
monkish chronicles have failed to supply. Olfric, the Saxon monk, 
deserves especial mention as having achieved the good work of 
rendering portions of the Old Testament into his vernacular tongue. 
" Whosoever," says he, "shall write out this boke, let him write it 
according to the Coptic, and for God's love correct it, that it be 
not faultie, lest he thereby be discredited and I shent." This wor- 
thy died A. D. 1006, at St. Albans; his bones were, in the reign 
of Canute, removed to Canterbury. Laufranc was another labo- 
rious and erudite scribe, to whose industrious toils the Christian 
world owes much; and which the perils from prejudices and pious 
frauds, during eight centuries of superstition and darkness, failed 
to destroy. He ultimately became primate of England, and pat- 
ron of its learning. Another eminent guardian of the Bible was 
the worthy Bishop Ausclm. It was a noble design on the part of 
the first printers, to rescue from threatened annihilation the great 
classic works of antiquity. Many of these, it is well known, are 
irretrievably lost; and those we now possess narrowly escaped a 
similar fate. The preservation of the Holy Scriptures, however, 
may undoubtedly be regarded as having been effected through the 
special intervehlion of Divine Providence. It is on this account 



100 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



that the integrity of the sacred text is regarded as unimpeachable, 
and its canonical records complete. Yet those who refer the pre- 
servation of the Bible to mere human agency, may well become 
skeptical on the subject. Distributed in fragments which were 
hidden in obscure recesses of monasteries, it may well excite our 
marvel that, in spite of the fiercest opposition of malignant men, 
this inestimable treasure should have yet descended to us complete 
and perfect. 

In early monkish times, the few books that did exist seem to 
have been sadly neglected. D'Israeli, it will be remembered, fur- 
nishes a curious chapter on this subject. The most valuable copy 
of Tacitus, of whom so much is wanting, was discovered in a mon- 
astery of Westphalia. It is a curious circumstance in literary his- 
tory, that we should owe Tacitus to this single copy ; for the 
Roman emperor of that name had copies of the works of his illus- 
trious ancestor placed in all the libraries of the empu-e, and every 
year had ten copies transcribed; but the Roman libraries seem to 
have been all destroyed, and the imperial protection availed noth- 
ing against the teeth of time. 

The original manuscript of Justinian's code was discovered by 
the Pisans accidentally, when they took a city in Calabria ; that vast 
code of laws had been in a manner unknown from the time of that 
emperor. This curious book was brought to Pisa, and when Pisa 
was taken by the Florentines, was transferred to Florence, where 
it is still preserved. It sometimes happened that manuscripts were 
discovered in, if we may so say, the last agonies of existence. 

Papirius Masson found, in the house of a book-binder of Lyons, 
the works of Agobart; the mechanic was on the point of using 
the manuscripts to line the covers of his books. A page of the 
second decade of Livy it is said, was found by a man of letters in 
the parchment of his battledore, while he was amusing himself in 
the country. He hastened to the maker of the battledore, but 
arrived too late ! The man had finished the last page of Livy, 
about a week before ! 



CUKlULS A N Li COSTLY BUOKS. 101 



Raimond Soranzo, a lawyer in the Papal court, possessed two 
books of Cicero, on Glorj^, which he presented to Petrarch, who 
lent them to a poor aged man of letters, formerly his preceptor. 
Urged by extreme want, the old man pawned them, and returning 
home, died suddenly, without having revealed where he had left 
them. They have never been recovered. 

Dr. Dee's singular MSS. were found in the secret drawer of a 
chest, which had passed through many hands undiscovered; and 
that vast collection of state-papers of the secretary of Cromwell, 
which formed about seventy volumes, accidentally fell out of the 
ceiling of some chambers in Lincoln's Inn. 

The book written by Henry YIII., which procured for him, 
from the Pope, the absurd title of "Defender of the Faith," 
and which is now scarcely less inappropriately used, was stolen 
from the Yatican, about the close of the past century, and 
coming into the possession of Payne, the bookseller, produced 
for the worthy bibliopole the reversion of a life annuity from the 
Marquis of Douglas. Dibdin speaks, in his Bibliographical Tour, 
of Vestiga ddle Tervie. dc Tito, e loro interne Pitture, which com- 
prises fifty-nine very large plates of the arabesque decorations and 
paintings in the baths of Titus, most elaborately and exquisitely 
printed in opaque colors, like highly-finished miniatures, etc. It 
is considered that no work w^fis ever executed, which can compete 
with this in the extraordinary brilliancy and beauty of its embel- 
lishments : they are said to be perfect. But one or two copies 
exist, and are worth about two hundred guineas each. 

Among the celebrated collectors of modern times may be nam- 
ed the late Duke of Sussex, Earl Spencer, and Heber, of England, 
and Dr. Kloss, of Frankfort. The first named had something like 
six thousand different editions of portions of the Bible; the larg- 
est collection of the kind ever formed. Those, with other accu- 
mulated literary treasures, have been dispersed abroad, the library 
having been sold some years since. Among the choice rarities 
it contained, was a Hebrew and Chaldaic Pentateuch of the 



102 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



thirteenth century, one of the richest illuminated Hebrew MSS. 
in existence ; the paintings were of wouderf ul beauty. 

Besides sixteen vellum copies of the Yulgate, there were two 
manuscript Bibles, profusely embellished with about one hundred 
exquisite miniatures in gold and colors. In another copy there 
were nearly fifty illustrative drawings of a very curious description, 
one of which represented Adam delving and his spouse spinning ! 
There is no " note " to indicate the name of the maker of the spiri- 
ning-wheel. The Duke's rich collection comprised some French, 
Italian, and Spanish Bibles ; and also an Italian manuscript, 
entitled, " Historia de Yecchio Testamento," which is decorated 
with about five hundred and twenty miniatures. It contained in 
addition a choice copy of the Bible, once Queen Elizabeth's, which 
she herself embroidered with silver ; and another in Arabic, which 
once belonged to Tippoo Saib. 

Horace Walpole's collection at Strawberry Hill deserves a pass- 
ing allusion. The proceeds of the auction sale of this costly library 
produced £37,298. Among the numerous objects of virtu which 
graced these literary spoils, we find a magnificent missal, perfectly 
unique, and superbly illuminated, being enriched with splendid 
miniatures by Raffaelle, set in pure gold and enamelled, and richly 
adorned with turquoises, rubies, etc. The sides are formed of two 
matchless cornelians, with an intaglio of the crucifixion, and 
another Scripture subject ; the clasp is set with a large garnet. 
This precious relic was executed expressly for Claude, Queen of 
France, it was bought by the Earl Waldegrave for one hundred 
and fifteen guineas. Another curious and costly specimen of bib- 
liography was a sumptuous volume, pronounced by the cognoscenti 
one of the most wonderful works of art extant, containing the 
Fsalms of David written on vellum, embellished by twenty-one 
inimitable illuminations by Don Julio Clovis, surrounded by 
exquisite scroll b<5rders of the purest arabesque, of unrivalled 
brilliancy and harmony. Its binding is of corresponding splendor. 
Its date is about 1537. This little gem produced from the 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 103 



purse of the above-named collector the sum of four hundred and 
twenty guineas I 

Queen Elizabeth, it appears from Dibdin, was a bibliomaniac of 
transcendaut fame ; her " Oone Gospell Booke, garnished on th' 
onside with the crucifix," etc., is a precious object to the virtuoso. 
It was the composition of Queen Catherine Parr, and was enclosed 
in solid gold ; it hung by a gold chain at her side, and was the 
frequent companion of the " Virgin Queen." In her own hand- 
writing at the beginning of the volume the following quaint lines 
appear : "I walke many times into the pleasaunt fieldes of the 
Holie Scriptures, where I plucke up the goodliesome herbes of 
sentences by pruning ; eate them by readinge ; chawe them by 
musing ; and laye them up at length in ye state of memorie by 
gathering them together ; that so, having tasted their sweeteness, 
I may the lesse perceave the bitternesse of this miserable life." 
This was penned by the Queen probably while she was in captivity 
at Woodstock, as the spirit it breathes affords a smgular contrast 
to the towering haughtiness of her ordinary deportment and 
expression of character. The MS. of the Evangelists, which was 
originally used at the inaugui'ation of Henry I., and down to 
Edward VI., is yet extant in the library of a gentleman in Nor- 
folk. It is written on vellum, bound in oaken boards an inch 
thick, fastened together with thongs of leather and brass bosses ; 
it is suiTounded by a gilt crucifix, which the several kingly lips 
have kissed in token of submission to their coronation oath. A 
melancholy interest attaches to everything connected with the 
career of the hapless Mary of Scots ; accordingly, we find great 
value is placed on the Missal presented to the queen by Pius V., 
and which accompanied her to the scafi"old ; the illuminations are 
said to be of extreme beauty. We read of a magnificent Mis- 
sal, nearly three feet in height, still extant in the Ubrary at Rouen, 
which occupied the labor of a monkish devotee upwards of thirty 
years. D'Israeli also refers to a huge copy of the Koran — proba- 
bly without a parallel, as to its size, in the annals of tellers. The 



104 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



characters are described as three inches long ; the book itself a 
foot in thickness, and its other dimensions five feet by three. It 
was doubtless designed for such followers of the Prophet as might 
be afflicted with imperfect vision. The writer's name deserves to 
be recorded : it is Gholam Mohgoodeen. Recent investigations 
at Turin have discovered some Greek MSS. of great antiquity, and 
valuable as elucidatory of celebrated works, quoted by ancient 
writers, heretofore deemed entirely lost. These MSS. were found 
by a learned Greek, named Simonides, in a cave situated at the 
foot of Mount Athos. They are composed of thin membranes, 
filled with minute characters, which are supposed to afford a clue 
to the hieroglyphic inscriptions engraved on the obelisk of the 
Hippodrome at Constantinople. 

There are some literary relics in the United States which merit 
notice. In the library of Dr. Lord are some rare old tomes — one 
a MS. written on vellum, dated one hundred and forty years prior 
to the era of printing. It is in Latin, and relates to the Sacra- 
ments. The other is a volume of Latin Synonyms with defini- 
tions, printed at Naples in 1490, one of the earliest books printed 
with moveable types. It is in black-letter, and admirable for 
its typography. The writer of these notes has in his possession a 
copy of Quintilian on Old Age, in the Latin, printed in the Itahc 
character, at Cologne, in 1528. It has the book mark of the 
renowned collector. Dr. Kloss, of Frankfort. It presents a speci- 
men of the old hog-skin binding, bevelled, with rude clasps, etc. 
He has also Drexelius' "De Eternitate," 1650, printed by Roger 
Daniel, the University printer at Cambridge ; and remarkable as 
an early specimen of engraving on silver. Also " The Sicke Mans 
Salve, wherein the faithful Christias may learne both how to 
behaue themselues patiently and thankfully in the time of sicknesse, 
and also virtuously to dispose of their temporall goods, and finally 
to prepare themselves gladly and godly to die, made by Thomas 
Becon : printed in the black-letter by John Daye, dwelling ouer 
Aldersgate beneath S. Martins, 15U." The writings of this worthy 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 105 



have bccu reprinted within tlie last few years ; this volume, how- 
ever, is not included in the republication. This little tome was 
formerly in the lil)rary of the late Duke of Sussex. 

Mr. Waterman of Philadelphia, has a rare MS. on vellum, 
(temp. 1200,) of exquisite delicacy in its chirography. It is 
richly illuminated, every page being decorated with some ingen- 
ious device or picture. It is one of the most remarkable relics 
that have descended to us. 

There is in the possession of a gentleman in Charleston, a very 
extraordinary literary curiosity — a Hebrew Prayer-Book, one 
thousand three hundred and fifty-seven years old. It is a ponder- 
ous volume, written on fine parchment. Dr. Grant, the Nestorian 
Missionary, some years ago presented to the American Bible 
Society a MS. folio copy of the Gospels in the Syriac, written in 
the Estrongels character, and arranged in lessons for the hturgy 
of the Jacobite Syiian Church. Its date is unknown, although 
from its appearance it must be of great antiquity. In the State 
Library at Harrisburg, are also some literary rarities; a copy of 
i!lliot's Indian Bible, printed at Cambridge, in quarto, 1680, and 
a volume of an earlier date, (1532.) The dialect of this edition 
of the Indian Bible is now unreadable, the tribes having become 
since extinct. Speaking of the Bible, we may here mention that 
the most esteemed Biblical MSS. are those of the Spanish Jews. 
The most ancient are not more than nine or ten centuries old; the 
famous MS. of the Samaritan Pentateuch, in the possession of 
the Samaritans of Sichen, is only five hundred years old. There 
is a MS. copy of the Scriptures in the Bodleian Library, believed 
to be seven hundred years old; and another in the Vatican, which 
is supposed to have been written A. D. 913. There Ls in the Con- 
necticut Historical Society, a MS. of very ancient origin — per- 
haps the oldest in the United States. It purports to have been 
written at the Convent of the Mendicant Friars, at Cologne, A. D. 
1268. It comprises various works in Latin, and forms a volume 
of about five hundred pages. The same institution possesses 



106 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



a copy of Valerius Maximus, in perfect preservation ; its date is 
1411. This work may be considered unique, and is doubtless 
the earliest printed volume in America. Mr. Mickley of Phila- 
delphia, has a splendid folio edition of the Bible in German, 
printed at Nuremburg, in 1415; it was formerly in the library of 
the Duke of Sussex. Although produced only thirty-five years 
after the discovery of printing, it presents a fine specimen of 
typography, and is adorned with rich illuminations. 

Mr. Lennox, of New York, who possesses a splendid library 
of rare and costly works, has, among his collection a copy of the 
Mazarine Bible which cost $2500 — and other choice literary 
relics. We now refer to the misapplied ingenuity of the monkish 
scribes, evinced in their little books. "We quote the following 
quaint passage on the subject, by an old penman, Myles Davies: 
" The smallness of the size of a book was always its own com- 
mendation; as, on the contrary, the largeness of a book is 
its own disadvantage, as well as terror of learning. In short, 
a big book is a scare-crow to the head and pocket of the 
author, student, buyer, and seller, as well as a harbor of igno- 
rance ; hence, the inaccessible masteries of the inexpugnable igno- 
rance and superstition of the ancient heathen, degenerate Jews, 
and of the Popish scholasters and canonists, intrenched under the 
frightful bulk of huge, vast and innumerable volumes; such as the 
great folio that the Jewish rabbins fancied in a dream was given 
by the angel Raziel to his pupil Adam, containing all the celestial 
sciences. And the volume writ by Zoroaster, entitled The 
Similitude, which is said to have taken up no more space than one 
thousand two hundred and sixty hides of cattle ; as also the twenty- 
five thousand, or as some say thirty-six thousand volumes, besides 
five hundred and twenty-five lesser MSS. of his. The grossness 
and multitude of Aristotle's and Yarro's books were both a pre- 
judice to the author's, and an hindrance to learning, and an occa- 
sion of the greatest part of them being lost. The largeness of 
Plutarch's treatises is a great cause of his being neglected; while 



CURIOUS AXD COSTLY BOOKS. lOT 



Longinus and Epictctus, in their pamphlet remains, are every 
one's corapanious. Origen's six thousand volumes (as Epiphanius 
will have it) were not only the occasion of his venting more 
numerous errors, but also for the most part of their perdition." 
Were it not for Euclid's Elements, Hippocrates' Aphorisms, 
Jastinian's Institutes, and Littleton's Tenures in small pam})hlct 
volumes, young mathematicians, fresh-water physicians, civilian 
novices, would be at a loss and total discouragement. Con- 
densed books, it is said, pay a deference to the reader's under- 
standing ; while pondereous and verbose treatises inflict need- 
less penalty upon his time and patience. The wearisome folio of 
the olden time is now no longer tolerated, we must have every 
thing in its most compact form. When both writers and readers 
were few, both parties seem to have resigned themselves to the 
painful infliction ; but such a state of things would now be mani- 
festly impossible, when books are multij^lied a thousand-fold. It 
was the literary humor of a certain Ma3cenas, when be entertained 
his scribes, to place at the head of the table those who had pub- 
lished huge folios, next to them authors in quarto, and below them 
the octavos and duodecimos. As specimens of ingenious trifling, 
we might mention the minute document presented to Queen Eliza- 
beth. It comprised the Decalogue, Creed and Lord's Prayer, all 
beautifully written in the compass of a finger-nail. By the aid of 
glasses, the Queen could easily read the microscopic characters. 
The Iliad was once vTitten on vellum so small that a nut-shell con- 
tained it ; and an Italian monk wrote the Acts and Gospels in 
compass of a farthing I Numerous similar instances might be 
adduced, but it is needless to multiply them. The early scribes 
found it much easier to write up to a folio, than down to the dimen- 
sions of a duodecimo ; for the condensing process was an art with 
which they were wholly unacquainted. They might have profited 
by the hint of Hudibrastic Butler, where he says — 

" 'Tis of books the chief 
Of all perfections, to be plain and brief." 



108 SALAD FOR THE SOLITAJIY 



We read of a remarkable character, M. Catherinot, who was a 
most fertile and fecund writer ; he was all his life pouring out his 
lucubrations from the point of his pen, upon an almost endless 
variety of topics. He completely tired out all the publishers of 
Paris ; yet, nothing discouraged, he adopted this singular expe- 
dient for disseminating his productions : when looking over the 
Hterary wares of the book-stalls, he contrived to drop a copy of his 
l>ooks among them. He formed the generous plan of supplying 
literary food to the famishing, free of charge, when he found they 
were too insensible to their own interests to buy for themselves. 

Hone tells a story of the library of the King of India, Dabshe 
lim, which was so numerous that one hundred Brahmins were scarce 
sufficient to keep it in order, and it required one thousand drome- 
daries to transport it from one place to another. He ordered them 
to set to work on an epitome ; in twenty years they produced a 
cyclopajdia of twelve thousand volumes. They presented it to 
him, but, to their amazement, he professed himself incapable of 
such extensive studies. The process of condensation was repeated 
till the quintessence was reduced to a single foho. Meanwhile the 
monarch had grown decrepid with age and he was unable to read 
even the single volume. His Vizier said to him : " Illustrious 
Sultan, though I have but a very imperfect knowledge of your 
library, yet I will undertake to deliver you a very brief and satis- 
factory abstract of it. You shall read it through in one minute, 
and yet you shall find matter in it for reflection throughout 
the rest of your life." Having said this, he took a palm-leaf, 
and wrote upon it with a golden style the four following sen- 
tences : — 

1. The greater part of the sciences comprise but one single 
word, perhaps ; and the whole history of mankind contains no more 
than three : they are horn, suffer and die. 

2. Love nothing but what is good, and do all that thou lovest 
to do ; think nothing but what is true, and speak not all that thou 
thinkest. 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 109 



3. kings ! tame your passions, govern yourselves, and it will 
be child's-play to you to govern the world. 

4. O kings ! people ! it can never be often enough repeated 
to yon, what the half-witted venture to doubt, that there is no 
ha])))iness without virtue, and no virtue without the fear of God. 

Antoinc Zarot, an eminent printer at Milan, about 1470, was 
(lie first on record who printed the Missal. Among other works 
his execution in colors of the celebrated Missale Rovmnuvi in folio, 
afforded a beautiful specimen of the art. The MS. copy seems to 
have been of a most dazzling description, its original date irccccx.; 
every leaf is appropriately ornamented with miniatures surrounded 
with exquisitely elaborated borders ; and its almost innumerable 
initials which are richly illuminated in gold and colors, render it 
unsurjjassed by any known production of its class. It has been 
estimated at 250 guineas. The Complutensian Polyglolt, other- 
wise known as Cardinal Ximenes, deserves a passing notice among 
the renowned books of by-gone times. This prodigious work was 
commenced under the auspices of the above named prelate in 1502, 
and for fifteen years the labor was continued without intermission ; 
its entire cost amounted to 50,000 golden crowns ! Arnas Guillen 
de Brocar was the celebrated printer of this stupendous work. Of 
the four large vellum copies, one is in the Vatican, another in the 
Escurial, and a third was bought by Herbets at the sale of the 
McCarthy library for 600 guineas. According to Gonzales, a 
Spanish historian, the earliest printed book of the "New World" 
was executed by Joannes Paulus in 1549 — a folio entitled " Ordi- 
natianes Lcgumque CoUedioncs pro Convenlu Juridico Mexicano." 

About 1572 we meet with another splendid production — the 
Spanish Pohjglott, printed by Christopher Plantin. A most mag- 
nificent copy upon vellum, in the original binding, was sold in 
London some five and twenty years since for 1000 guineas 1 
and enormous as was this price, the copy was actually wanting 
three out of the ten volumes — those being in the Bibliotheque 
Royale. One of the scarcest books in the language — for there 



no SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



are, according to Dibdin, but two known copies extant — is a little 
black-letter tome of 1586, entitled, " A discourse of Englishe Pot- 
trie" etc., one of which was sold in the Duke of Roxburgh's col- 
lection for iE64. We might amuse the reader by citing a few of 
the quaint and alliterative titles of some of the books of these 
times. Take the following for instance : "A Footpath to Felidtie," 
" Ghdde to Godlinesse," " Swarme of Bees," " Plante of Pleasure and 
Grove of Graces^'' — 1586. These were most rife in the days of 
Cromwell. There were many bordering closely on the ludicrous, 
such as the one styled, "J. Pair of Bellows to Blow off the Dust 
cast upon John Fry;" and a Quaker whese outward man the pow- 
ers thought proper to imprison, published "A Sigh of Sorrow for 
the sinners of Zion, breathed out of a hole in the Wall of an Earthen 
Vessel, known among men by the name of Samuel FishP We might 
multiply the numbers ad lihitiim; but must content om'selves with 
adding one or two more. " A Reaping Hook well tempered for the 
stubburn Ears of the coming Crop, or Biscuits baked in the oven of 
Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the 
Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation." 
To another we have the following copious description : " Seven 
Sobs of a Sorrowful Soul for Sin, or the Seven Penitential Psalms 
of the Princely Prophet David, whereunto are also annexed William 
Hurnuis's handful of Honeysuckles, and divers Godly and pithy 
Ditties, now newly augmented." 

An amusing anecdote is recorded of Sixtus Y., proving the sole- 
cism of Pontifical infallibility: — it ascribes to the pompous edition 
of the Bible, printed under the immediate inspection of the Pope, 
in 1590, over two thousand tyjoographical errors, notwithstanding 
every sheet was submitted to the careful revision of his holiness' 
infallible eye ! Moreover, a severe anathema was by himself 
appended to the first volume, against any person who should alter 
or change any portion of the supposed immaculate text, yet so 
glaring and notorious became the errors aforesaid in process of 
time, that his successor, Clement YII., first had corrected slips 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. Ill 



pasted over them, and aftei'wards actually bad the temerity to cor- 
rect and thoroughly revise the whole in a new edition, thereby vir- 
tually ensuring his own excommunication ; in addition to which 
he also annexed another anathema to the like effect. 

The Mazarin Bible, so called, on account of its having been 
found in Cardinal Mazarin's library, is considered to be the very 
first book ever printed with metal types. The first Bible, of 14C2, 
is an edition which exhibits a matchless effort in the art of printing. 

It is a remarkable and interesting fact, that the very first use 
to which the discovery of printing was applied was the production 
of the Holy Bible. This was accomplished at Mentz, between the 
years 1450 and 1455. Gutenberg was the inventor of the art, 
and Faust, a goldsmith, fm-nished the necessary funds. This Bible 
was in two folio volumes, which have been justly praised for the 
strength and beauty of the paper, the exactness of the register, and 
the lustre of the ink. The woi'k contained twelve hundred and 
eighty-two pages, and for a long time after it had been finished and 
offered for sale, not a human being, save the artists themselves, 
knew how it had been accomplished. Of the printed Bible,, 
eighteen copies are now known to be in existence, four of which 
are printed on vellum. Two of these are in England, one being 
in the Grenville collection. Of the fourteen remaining copies, 
ten are in England, there being a copy in the libraries of Oxford, 
Edinburgh, and London, and seven in the collections of different 
noblemen. The vellum copy has been sold as high as $1300. 

There is a Bible still preserved, written on palm-leaves, in the 
Unviversity of Gottingen, containing 5376 leaves. Another 
Bible, of the same material, is at Copenhagen. There were also, 
in Sir Hans Sloane's collection, more than twenty manuscripts, in 
various languages, on the same material. 

At the Chapter House may be seen Doomsday Booh, or the 
Survey of England, made by William the Conqueror, two volumes 
on vellum of unequal size ; deed of resignation of the Scottish 
Crown to Edward II. ; the Charter granted by Alfonso of Castile 



112 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



to Edward I., on his marriage with Eleanor of Castile, with a solid 
seal of gold attached ; a Treaty of Peace between Henry VIII. 
and Francis I. of France, with the gold seal attached in high 
relief, and undercut, supposed to be the work of Benvenuto Cellini. 

The first book which bears the name of the place where it was 
printed, and those of the printers, (Faust and Shceffer, 1457,) was 
the celebrated Psalter, printed from large cut type. The Litera 
Indulgentiarum Nicholai V., on a single piece of parchment, was 
issued two years previously, and is the first instance of a printed 
book, hearing date : a copy of this work, which is said by Dr. 
Dibdin to be of inconceivable beauty, is to be found in the cele- 
brated Library at Blenheim. 

The names of John Nicholls and John Boydell, who died about 
the year 1804, take prominent rank among the producers of 
splendid books ; — they have the credit of having expended the 
princely sum of dE350,000 in fostering and improving the sister arts 
of painting and engraving. Their magnificent " S/iakspeare Gal- 
lery" is even to this day a noble monument of their enterprise and 
skill. The gigantic speculation unfortunately failed, superinducing 
a loss to its projectors of over iE 1 00, 000. Every one has heard 
of Dugdale's "Monasticon Atiglicaiuim," in eight huge folios, which 
was originally published in fifty-four parts ; the entire cost of a 
large paper copy was j£238 10s. Lathan's ''History of Birds" 
was also a very splendid work, in eleven royal quarto volumes, 
comprising descriptions of above four thousand specimens, illus- 
trated by a series of over two hundred richly-colored embellish- 
ments : the original publication price was about .£50. Murphy's 
"Arabian Antiquities of Spain" was a beautiful specimen of art ; 
its exquisite line engravings discover wonderful finish : it cost ten 
thousand guineas in its execution. Again, the splendid ceremonial 
of the coronation of George lY., under the superintendence of the 
late Sir George Naylor, of the Herald's College, furnishes another 
illustrious instance of costly bibliography, Notwithstanding the 
grant of the government of £5000 towards the expenses, the 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 113 



undertaking also was a great pecuniary failure. It contained 
a series of magnificent paintings of the ro3'al procession, ban- 
quet, etc^ etc., comprehending faithful portraits of the leading 
personages, all gorgeously tinted and emblazoned : the sub. 
scription price of the work was fifty guineas. We might 
allude to the progresses of Queen Elizabeth and James I., the 
former in three, and the other four, volumes, royal quarto, both 
works of repute : but the magnificent work of Pistolesi on the 
Vatican, in seven royal folios, containing seven hundred large and 
beautiful engravings, is a still more stupendous affair : as also 
Napoleon's great work on Egypt, which is a noble monument of 
art, there being no other of the same description in Europe which 
will bear any comparison with it. The size and execution of the 
engravings arc such as must always excite admiration ; many of 
the plates being the largest ever produced, — and at no other 
establishment in Europe than the Imperial printing-press at Paris, 
could it have been brought out on the same gigantic scale. 

The bibliographic connoisseur will remember the unique copy of 
Yaldarfer's edition of " // Decamcrone di Boccaccio " of the Roxburgh 
collection, which once produced the almost incredible sum of over 
two thousand guineas; the celebrated edition of Livy, exquisitely 
printed on vellum by Sweynheim, in 1469, which was sold for four 
hundred and fifty guineas; and the far-famed Greek Testament of 
Erasmus, printed at Basil, 1519, of which but one copy is now 
known to exist, being in the cathedral of York, and of which that 
renowned collector. Sir Mark Sykes, was refused the purchase at 
the prodigious offer of one thousand guineas. Bodini, the great 
Italian printer, produced some splendid specunens of his art ; some 
of which are said to be unexcelled by any subsequent efforts. His 
edition of Walpole's " Castle of Otranto," is one of the loveliest 
little gems extant ; the plates are worked on white satin, and the 
text on the purest vellum. His chief cVocuvre was his " Homer," 
in three folio volumes : it was the work of six years. 

Young's ''Museum Worskyanum" cost i£27,000 in its production; 



114 • SALID FOR THE SOLITARY 



it was never puhlished, although a copy has been purchased at 
iE400. A few years ago, a tyijographical wonder was exhibited 
in London, being a sumptuous edition of the New Testament, 
printed in gold, on porcelain paper of most immaculate beauty, 
and, for the first time, on both sides. Two years were occupied in 
perfecting the work. Only one hundred copies were taken off. 

An interesting specimen, which may be known to very few, and 
which is, for its kind, unsurpassed in the annals of literature, is the 
great historical work which has recently been completed by the 
late Mr. Wiffen, the admirable translator of Tasso, and other 
popular works, which comprises the Family Records of every 
descendant of the ancient and distinguished House of Russell, 
compiled from authentic sources, chiefly in the possession of the 
family. This very beautiful production, which includes the Por- 
traits of every member of that Peerage, direct and collateral, painted 
by one of the most prominent artists t)f the age, (Harding,) is 
comprised in one folio volume, printed in a style of sumptuous 
magnificence; oiily one single copy of which was printed off. The 
unique bequest by the late Duke of Bedford, under whose personal 
superintendence it was commenced and completed, was designed 
by him as an heirloom in the family, and to be deposited in the 
Library at Woburn Abbey, from whence it was on no account to 
be removed. It cost the Duke three thousand guineas. 

The most costly undertaking ever attempted by a single indivi- 
dual, of a literary character, which unquestionably the world has 
yet seen, is the magnificent work on the ^'Aborigines of Mexico," by 
the late Lord Kingsborough. This stupendous work is said to 
have been produced at the enormous cost to the author of £30,000i 
or $150,000. It is comprised in seven immense folio volumes, 
embellished by about one thousand superb illustrations, colored so 
exquisitely as to represent the originals with the most faithful 
exactness. These volumes are of extraordinary dimensions. This 
unprecedented instance of munificence in the patronage of litera- 
ture, is rendered the more astonishing from the lamentable fact of 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 115 



its having proved the ultimate ruiu of its projector. Not only did 
this enthusiastic nobleman undertake to defray the entire expense 
attending the publication, in every item of which, as it might have 
been expected, he had to meet the most exorbitant charges, but 
he actually determined on having but a very limited number of 
copies printed, we beUeve only fifty, after which the lithographic 
drawings from which the plates were taken, were erased. These 
copies were appropriated for gratuitous presentation to the several 
Royal and Public Libraries of Europe. It is painful to add that 
this noble patron of literature and the arts, actually died in debt, 
a few years since, — a sad instance of self-immolation to his munifi- 
cence, in a prison in Dublin. A copy of this gorgeous work is in 
the Philadelphia Library. 

Humboldt's Mexico is another splendid work : the same may be 
said of Merrick's Ancient Armour, Mayer's Egypt, and many 
others : indeed, to cite all under the category would require a 
space far exceeding that allotted us for the present paper. 

A rage for illustrating formerly obtained to a great extent. It 
is noted by Granger, a great collector, that a certain female of his 
acquaintance commenced the illustrating the Bible, and that before 
she had reached the 25th verse of the 1st chapter of Genesis, the 
number of her prints had reached seven hundred I Perhaps the 
most illustrious of all illustrated works, is the extraordinary copy of 
Shakspeare, in possession of Earl Spencer, a work which owes its 
existence to the wonderful perseverance and taste of the Dowager 
Lady Lucan, his mother-in-law. For sixteen years, this herculean 
and pleasurable task was in progress. It is unnecessary to 
attempt a description of this costly work, as it contains whatever 
of taste, beauty, and refinement in decoration it was possible to 
combine in the embelUshment of Bulmer's beautiful folio edition of 
the great poet. This superb work is enclosed in rich velvet bind- 
ing, surmounted with silver gilt clasps, corners, etc. " It is kept," 
to adopt the enthusiastic language of Dibdin, who has enjoyed the 
advantage of personally inspectmg it, " inviolate from the impuri- 



116 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



ties of bibliomauiacal miasmata, in a sarcophagus-shaped piece of 
furniture of cedar and mahogany." 

The largest work ever yet attempted, is the " Encydopddie 
3Ietkodiq7t£," commenced at Paris, in 1782, being a collection of 
dictionaries on the several departments of science and knowledge, 
which has, we believe, extended to 250 quarto volumes. 

In Thibet, there is said to be a Cyclopaedia in forty-four 
volumes. The largest work ever undertaken in Russia is the 
great natiooal Encyclopaedia, on which several hundred literary 
men have been long engaged; we have not at hand the extent to 
which this gigantic production has already reached, although it 
cannot be very inferior in numbers to the volumiuons works of 
Germany and France, 

Hall's "Ancient Ballads" is an instance of rich and luxurious 
specimen of the art. Printing in colors is another auxiliary in 
modern book embellishments, an instance of the kind is to be 
seen in the sumptuous edition of Lockhart's " Spanish Ballads," 
published a few years ago by Murray. 

It is not a little remarkable to note the tendency of the literary 
taste of the present day; as if, having exhaused the stores of all 
cotemporary skill and ingenuity, it now reverts back to the semi- 
barbarous age of Gothic book-embellishment. The same remark 
is no less applicable to the sister arts of poetry, painting, sculp- 
ture, architecture, etc. The poet no longer seeks the classic Greek 
from which to paint the ideal, but prefers to portray the imagery 
of monkish pageantry during the days of the ascendency of the 
Latin Church. And is not this equally true of our architectural 
standard, in the prevailing preference for the florid Gothic of our 
religious edifices ? To resume, — there are already published seve- 
ral very costly illuminated works of matchless brilliancy and 
splendor; for instance, Shaw's "Dresses and Decorations of the 
Middle Ages," in two noble volumes. It comprises illustrations of 
costumes, manners, and arts of Europe, from the seventh to the 
seventeenth centuries. Another gorgeous work is the " Palceo- 



CURIOUS AND COSTLY BOOKS. 11*1 



giaj^Jda Sacra Pidoria," by Westwood, containing fac-similes of 
Anglo-Saxon, Greek, Sclavonic and other MSS., richly illustrated. 
One volume is only yet published. Its cost is $250. There is 
also a fac-simile edition of the original works of Froissart, being 
printed in gold, silver and colors. A similar work, and indeed 
many others of the class, are in course of publication at Paris; 
but we must refrain from extending our remarks further. We 
might just mention one other, entitled " The Arabesque Frescoes of 
Rtifae/k/' a work of magnificent preparations. 

The best copy in existence of the Caxtonian edition of Gower's 
" De Confessionc Amantis" 1483, one of the rarest among 
printed books, when found perfect, was purchased by a Dublin 
bookseller, at Cork, with a lot of old rubbish, (in 1832,) for a 
mere trifle, and was sold afterwards for more than £300. It is 
now in the celebrated Spencer Library at Althorp. 

Old books, like old wines, sometimes thus increase in value in 
the ratio of their age. The mania for the antique in books still 
obtains among "book-worms" and bibliomaniacs. Owen Jones' 
Alhamlra presents a magnificent specimen of the opulent taste 
devoted to the revival of the illuminations of monkish times — 
and it offers no mean tribute to their patient industry and skill 
that, even with our advanced state of arts, they should be referred 
to as models. Speaking of Owen Jones' Alhambra, reminds us 
of the superb copy of that work exhibited at the New York 
Crystal Palace. The binding which was executed by Mathews, 
of New York, occupied six months in its completion, and cost 
upwards of $500. It is in pale Russia, illuminated with colored 
Morocco: it differs from most costly bindings by being sol(*ly the 
work of the book-binder, no jewelry or artistic ornament having 
been employed in the decoration. As a specimen of chastened 
elegance and beauty this volume bears the palm of excellence. 
It is stated in a Brussels paper that a gigantic work is in 
progress at Bruges, which will require twenty years for its comple- 
tion. M. Depacppe of that city proposes to produce in Gothic 



118 



SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



letters "limitation de Jesus Christ,^^ by the Abbe d'Assance. 
This work will fill 670 pages, each of which will be about three- 
quarters of a yard in height, by eighteen inches wide. They will 
have to execute 114 engravings, forming copies of the great mas- 
ters of the Flemish school, viz. Van Eyck, Memling, Pourbus, 
Claessens, etc.; the pages on which will be displayed the "Imita- 
tion of Jesus Christ" will be encircled with garlands and other 
ornaments, in blue and gold. Here, however, we must close our 
desultry sketch, although the half has not been noted, of our 
pleasant researches — so exuberant are the stores of the bibliogra- 
phic wealth of the "republic of letters." 

Having thus regaled our mental vision with a brief and furtive 
glance at the exuberant riches of ancient and modern bibliogra- 
phy, we pause not to moralize on this mighty mausoleum of 
departed genius and skill; but simply to advertise the reader of 
the fact, that amidst all the magnificent display spread out before 
our delighted sense, one delectable tome of all the rest, which 
would most irresistibly tempt us to infringe a certain canon of the 
decalogue — nay, two of them — is Smith's " Historical and Literary 
Curiosities," consisting of an immense collection of most valuable 
autograph letters of noble, royal and literary characters of the 
past and present ages. 





. SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 

" Nollii/ig can now be said which has not been said before," 

Nothing will therefore now be presented to the reader for his 
contemplation. If we ofiFer nothing, nothing will, of course, be 
expected, and nothing we may write will offend any one, provided 
we stick to our text, 

" Which way the subject theme may gang, 
Let time or chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Or probably a sermon." 

We have therefore determined to offer nothing, for which no 
apology will be required. Every thing is of some value and 
interest to somebody, but nothing concerns nobody — and is a 
nonentity. — Permit us then to offer a word or two suggestive of 
this remarkable negative noun, this cipher in numbers — so fre- 
quently in vogue, yet never in existence — for certainly nothing 
can offend if nothing is affirmed. Perhaps you may remember 
some occasions when nothing was preferable to anything, — the 
next of kin to nothing is nobody — and certainly there have been 
sundry times and seasons when nobody would have been preferred 
to anybody : — it is not impossible that nothing, on the present 



120 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



occasion, may be preferred to anything else, and tins is our apo- 
logy for presenting so dark,' mysterious and occult a subject to 
your contemplation. Out of nothing what marvels have sprung 
into being. Nothing is a momentous affair — it must be of impor- 
tance to some, and to affirm this of none, would be to assert it of 
all — since nothing is more self-evident than that two negatives 
create a positive. If nothing engages our attention at present, 
nothing interests us, (if we may be pardoned the ill-disguised 
egotism,) we are talking about nothing, and we shall gain nothing 
by anything that may be said. 

Nothing is certainly a fact, and yet every fact is something — 
nothing seems to be intangible and ideal, and yet it is a reality — 
with all our labored attempts at its exposition, we must sum up all 
and confess it is a mysterious something — some may think we 
are making a great deal out of nothing ; this is just what we pur- 
pose to effect. The fact is there is no end to nothing — it is a 
circle without beginning or end — and we are persuaded we shall 
never get to the end of our theme, unless we leave off as we 
commenced. 

Addison has a capital paper on Nonsense — which seems to chime 
in so admirably with the foregoing — if indeed the reader may 
think it too nonsensical to tag on anything more — that we intro- 
duce some of its pithy paragraphs. " Hudibras," he says, " has 
defined nonsense (as Cowley does wit) by negatives. Nonsense 
(says he) is that which is neither true nor false. These two great 
properties of nonsense, which are always essential to it, give it 
such a peculiar advantage over all other writings, that it is incapa- 
ble of being answered or contradicted. * * * A man may as 
well hope to distinguish colors in the midst of darkness, as to find 
out what to approve or disapprove in nonsense. In a word, there 
are greater depths and obscurities, greater intricacies and per- 
plexities, in an elaborate and well written piece of nonsense, than 
in the most abstruse and profound tract of school divinity. There 
are two kinds of nonsense — high and low. Lo%v nonsense is the 



I 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 121 



fruit of a cold phlegmatic temper. A writer of this complexion 
gropes his way softly among self-contradictions, and grovels in 
absurdities. He has neither wit nor sense, and pretends to none. 
High nonsense, on the contrary, blusters and makes a noise ; it 
stalks upon hard words, and rattles through polysyllables. It is 
loud and sonorous, smooth and periodical. It assumes a mcrst 
majestic appearance, and wears a garb like ^sop's ' ass clothed 
in the lion's skin.' In a word, it so imposes upon us by high 
sounding words, that one is apt to suppose they must signify some- 
thing." Thus much for nonsense, which we here throw in as an 
episode to — nothing. 

In our analysis of nothing, we ought not to forget its first syl- 
lable no, — the second syllable, — thing, may speak for itself. Any- 
thing is not nothing ; but a thing is a thing ; this is a self-evident 
proposition. A cotemporary* has so ably discussed the little 
negation, that we take the liberty of presenting his strictures to 
the reader. 

" A very little word is No. It is composed of but two letters 
and only forms a syllable. In meaning it is so definite as to defy 
misunderstanding. Young lips find its articulation easy. Any 
child can spell it. Unlike some words of learned length, spoken 
only on rare occasions, its use is common and familiar. Not an 
hour passes in company but we hear it repeated. It would be a 
task to carry on conversation for a few minutes without its aid. 
Diminutive in size, evident in import, easy of utterance, frequent 
in use, and necessary in ordinary speech, it seems one of the 
simplest and most harmless of all words. Yet there are those to 
whom it is almost a terror. Its sound makes them afraid. Upon 
then' lips, when forced to pronounce it, it hangs heavily as lead 
They would expurgate it from their vocabulary if they could. An 
easy and good-natured class of people they are. They like always 
to agree with their friends. To them the language of contradic- 

♦ The Merchant's Leilger. 



122 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



tion is uncongenial. The ranks of disputants obtain from them 
few recruits. They cannot differ from others without a painful 
effort, which they seldom make. It is in their nature to drift down 
the stream rather than resist the current. When urged to any- 
thing by companions, they find it all but impossible to say — No. 
The little monosyllable sticks in their throat. Their pliable and 
easy temper inclines them to conformity, and frequently works 
their bane. Assailed by the solicitations of pleasure they are 
sure to yield, for at once and resolutely they will not repeat — No. 
Plied with the intoxicating cup they seldom overcome, for their 
facil nature refuses to express itself in — No. Encountering temp- 
tation in the hard and duteous path they are likely to falter and 
fall, for they have not boldness to speak out the decided negative 
— No. Amid the mists of time, and involved in the labyrinthine 
mazes of error, they are liable to forget eternal verities and join 
the ribald jest, for they have not been accustomed to utter an em- 
phatic — No. Their talents may be of a high order, their dispo- 
sition amiable and generous, and their prospects flattering; but 
this one weakness may at any time prove fatal to their hopes. 

" All the noble souls and heroes of history have held themselves 
ready, whenever it was demanded, to say — No. The warrior said 
— No to the obstacles which threatened the success of his arms, 
and rose against them in his might, and made them as the dust of 
his feet. The statesman said — No to the imperious and insulting 
demands of an excited populace or a foreign foe, and devised the 
plans by which the language of demand was exchanged for the 
language of entreaty and supplication. The poet said — No to the 
sloth and indolence which consumed his precious hours, and wove 
for himself in heavenly song a garland of immortality. The mar- 
tyred hosts said — No, to the pagan powers that demanded a recan- 
tation of their faith, and swift from the fire and the torture their 
souls up-rose to the rewards and beatitude of heaven. The 
greatest and best of all that ever trod our earth, the holy One 
himself, was incessant in his labors of self-denial, and even thereby 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 123 



he won the honors of his cross. Great men have grown great by 
repeating — No at every stop of their progress. To ease, to inglo- 
rious joyance, to pleasure, to hardship, they said — No. This was 
their warchword, this the source of their victories. Copernicus 
said — No, and the baseless system of Ptolemy fell. Luther said — 
No to the abuses of the Church and the Reformation sprung into 
life. Columbus said — No, to adverse circumstances and refractory 
mariners, and America was discovered. The Puritans said — No, 
to English tyranny, and they founded a nation and new homes on 
this continent. The colonies of North America said — No to 
British misrule, and the United States came uito being. Fulton 
said — No to those who pronounced his scheme valueless, and pro- 
ceeded to launch the first steam-boat on the Hudson. But why 
enumerate farther I In the slow advancement of mankind — No 
has ever proved a word of power. Before it error consecrated by 
antiquity has fallen, and truth has risen in her splendor. Every 
falsehood refuted and denied is a step to truth ; every impediment 
vanquished an advance to greatness. It is but fair to observe, 
however, that even in the use of this word there may be an abuse. 
As there are minds too pliable and gentle, so there are others too 
dogmatic and contradictory. On little occasions, and for trifling 
reasons, one may acquire a vile and disagreeable habit of dispute 
and denial. In things of no moral or practical account it is wise 
to be conciliatory and compliant. The most decided of men need 
not be impolite, or unpleasing in society. But when duty or pro- 
priety demands it, no one should be ashamed to speak — No. 

•'Few have learned to speak this word 
When it should be spoken ; 
Resolution is deferred. 
Vows to virtue broken. 

More of courage is required, 

This one word to say, 
Than to stand where shots are fired 

In the battle fray, 



124 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Use it fitly, and ye'll see 

Many a lot below 
May be schooled, and nobly ruled 

By power to utter — ' A''o.' " 



But to begin again: Most persons prefer something as the 
theme of their discourse ; by way of variety, and for the sake of 
steering out of the beaten track, we insist on nothing. That the 
origin of this shadowless subject, like much of our legendary lore, 
is enveloped in the mists of remote antiquity, as well as shrouded 
in the obscurity of modern metaphysics, will not be disputed. It 
will be further admitted that nothing is a slender peg to hang any 
ideas upon ; it is premised, therefore, that the expectations of the 
reader, in this respect, should be restrained within moderate limits, 
as otherwise it is possible, from paucity of wit on our part, the 
present attempt at its illustration may prove less than nothing. 
Were we, according to clerical precedent, to divide, and sub-divide 
our subject, its hydra-heads would, we fear, be found brainless 
phantoms, and the fabled task of Hercules but prove alike profit- 
less to the reader, and perplexing to the writer. 

Nothing, or no thing, is applied either as a noun or adjective — 
stands for non-existence — no-entity or nihility, from the Latin root 
nihil. Its antagonistic term is something; and, although it is like 
comparing shadow with substance, yet, however invidious the 
comparison may prove, we are of necessity compelled to adopt the 
alternative. Talk of the mysteries of metaphysics — what are they 
as contrasted with the inextricable mazes of this strange, inde- 
scribable phantasm ? "What, indeed, can be affirmed of a thing 
that has no physical existence ? All we can say of it is, that it is 
not extant, or in legal phrase — non est inventus. In this dilemma, 
our only escape is to treat it negatively ; this indeed seems per- 
fectly consistent with the nature and attributes of our ghostly 
subject. First, then, nothing is nothing ; not anything : its 
history consequently is a series of negations — no beginning — no 
existence — no end ; and yet, paradoxical as it may sound, nothing 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 125 



is associated witli almost everything. It eaters into all the 
sinuosities and diversified circumstances of our social economy, 
as well as links itself with the sublime story of the steller firma- 
ment. In this view, our intangible topic begins to assume a 
seemingly opaque form. For example, the great globe we inhabit 
is suspended upon nothing ; and as to its original substance, 
for aught we know to the contrary, it* was evoked into being, 
by the fiat of its Divine Author — out of nothing. And as it 
seems to ha^e puzzled astronomers to determine both the origin 
and destiny of the moon, conjecture may not go widely astray, if a 
like mysterious paternity be assigned to the luminous orb, the poets 
so delight to celebrate. Then, again, as to the three kingdoms of 
nature — animal, vegetable, mineral — what are their source and des- 
tiny ? Can we discern the point of theu* origin or their dissolution ? 
The words of an old song seem to chime in here so well, that we 
must be excused citing them in this place. 

"When rhyming -with reason at first were in fashion, 
And poets and authors indulg'd in their passion, 
Select what they might, for their subject was new, 
And that's more than our modern scribblers can do 

The ancients have work'd upon each thing in nature, 
Describ'd its variety, genius and feature ; 
They having exhausted all fancy could bring, 
As nothing is left, why of nothing we sing. — 
From nothing we came, and whatever our station. 
To nothing we owe an immense obligation ; 
AVhatever we gain, or whatever we learn. 
In time we shall all into nothing return. 

This world came from nothing, at least so says history ; 
Of course about nothing there's something of mystery; 
Man came from nothing, and by the same plan. 
Woman was made from the rib of a man. 
Since then a man thinks a nothing of taking, 
A woman to join and again his rib making; 
As nothing can give so much joy to his life, 
Since nothing's so sweet as a good humor'd wife. 



126 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Thinking of nothing is some folk's enjoyment. 
Doing of nothing is many's employment ; 
The love of this nothing have some folks so strong 
They say nothing — do nothing all the day long ; 
Some pass their time nothing beginning, 
By nothing losing, and by nothing winning ; 
Nothing they buy, and nothing they sell. 
Nothing they know and nothing they tell. 

There 's something in nothing exceedingly clever, 
Nothing will last out for ever and ever ; 
Time will make everything fade away fast, 
While nothing will surely endure to the last. 

That life is all nothing its plainer and plainer. 

So he who gets nothing is surely a gainer ; 

Thus much we prove pretty plain, 

Take nothing from nothing, there'll nothing remain — 

Thus with this nothing the time out we 're spinning. 

Nothing will sometimes set many folks grinning, 

Reader, believe it, while all this is true, 

And the author wrote this having nothing to do." 

Nothing was in vogue in ancient times, quite as universally as 
in ours. The Egyptian task masters, (to cite the authority of 
Holy Writ,) required the captive Israelites to fabricate bricks out 
of nothing. A certain English bishop, on a certain occasion, 
found, to his surprise, placed on his pulpit, in lieu of his usual 
written sermon, merely some sheets of blank paper. His presence 
of mmd, however, furnished him ample material — for he is said to 
have preached one of the best discourses he ever delivered from 
his text — nothing. He commenced, as usual, turning over the 
leaves, by saying, "Here, my brethren, is nothing; and out of 
nothing God created the world !" etc. Many a sermon has ended 
in nothing, but this is the only instance we remember in which 
nothing furnished its commencement, its substance, and its close, 
with such signal success. Again, nothing is the very life and soul 
of many spasmodic jokes 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 127 



Many things are poetically said to " end in smoke," more may 
be truthfully said to result in nothivg. How many bright and 
cherished schemes of the devotees of mammon, resolve themselves 
into nothing : the same may be predicated of the plotting manocu- 
vers of designing dowagers, in the game of husband-hunting — of 
the hai)less adventurer in pursuit of matrimony " under difficulties," 
and of the golden visions of deluded diggers at the auriferous sands 
of the Pacific. 

Nothing seems to pervade almost every department of our social 
existence. Many a man of opulence will boastingly assure you, he 
began the world with nothing, and found it first-rate capital ; 
another less favored of blind fate, or fortune — failing in the like 
experiment, deplores its delusive cheat, yet still clinging to the 
deception, keeps next to nothing all his life. 

Eveiy one, doubtless, remembers the story of the economic 
individual, whose inventive wit brought his horse to live without 
eating, or to live upon nothing — and, at the same time, to a finish 
of his existence — an expedient which seems to have been in process 
of enactment among the ill-starred inhabitants of Ireland ; the 
terms of whose subsistence being "nothing a day, and find your- 
self." If the famishing for the food animal, complain of their 
impoverished condition, ought not our sympathies to be extended 
towards those who, though luxuriously cared for in all other 
respects, pine with intellectual starvation ; — whose heads, instead 
of being luminous with undying thoughts, present but a dreary 
vacuity. The remark is no less applicable to the human heart — 
the fabled shrine of the affections. What a " pleasing and univer- 
sal fiction " is it to suppose that anything of the kind really exists 
in that sentimental locality, — at least, in but too many instances. 
Some in their vain search for tlie mysterious organ, wishing to take 
the most indulgent view of the matter, apologetically suggest, in 
behalf of the "heartless," "that his heart cannot be in the right 
place." Cupidity, as well as Cupid, often causes organic diseases 
of the heart ; in the former case producing a contraction, in the 



128 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



latter an expansion of that ductile organ. It has been suggested, 
that as extremes are said to meet, and money hunting has much to 
do with modern matrimonial matches, possibly the two words may 
be indebted to a common source. Cupidity is likely not only to take 
special care of " number one,^^ and, when he records his will, " to cut 
off his son with a shilling," but also to leave nothing to his friends, 
neighbors and acquaintance. Cupid, on the other hand, if left to 
himself, promises most liberally, and treats his votaries occasionally 
to a taste of his nectar and ambrosia ; yet too often his promisory 
notes become dishonored at maturity, he becomes bankrupt, and 
pays nothing in the pound. 

Not only are some people's heads, instead of being replenished 
with ideas within, or hair without, endowed with nothing; but 
their pockets and purses are frequently in as mendicant a condi- 
tion. How many, again, patiently linger, and long for, the demise 
of some remarkable instance of longevity, vainly hoping to share 
some pecuniary immunity; but all their patience goes for nothing. 
There is a class of bold individuals, who are astonished at nothing 
— they make nothing of a trip across the Atlantic — the grand 
tour of Europe — a voyage to the Celestials — or an expedition to 
the new El-dorado of the west. Such imperturbable spirits there 
are, who make nothing of wearing a shabby coat and worse con- 
tinuations — nothing of breaking their word of honor — or of intrud- 
ing without permission into their neighbor's house, and under the 
strange hallucination that meum, and tmim, are convertible terms, 
display their fancy in the selection and appropriation of whatever 
they can most conveniently secure. Again, there are frigid sub- 
jects, who make nothing of the scorching rays of a meridian sum- 
mer sun; others who place the like estimate upon the withering 
blasts of a northern winter. Some, also, who act as though the 
profession, and acting out of a religious life, were nothing — and 
that time and eternity shared a like estimate. But we shall weary 
the reader with rambling repetitions; and truth to say, we do not 
yet see " the beginning of the end" to our topic. If we may take 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 129 



breath, and venture an anticipatory conclusion, we should say that 
nothing is ecumenic — and that it is not only antithetical with, but 
twin-brother of, something; for nothing negatively, issomctliing — 
but positively — nothing; it is yet always in close proximity, or 
juxta-position, with — something. How many grave and sagacious 
men devote their whole lives to the contemplation and pursuit of 
— nothing; for one of the high priests of learning confessed, in 
effect, the truth, as he surveyed the unexplored ocean before him. 
The learned scribes have, therefore, come to the conclusion that 
there is nothing in the world. Old Francis Quarles arrives at a 
similar issue, in one of his quaint " Emblems." A ballon or blad- 
der, if exhausted of air, is said to be full of nothi-ng ; the same 
may be affirmed of the genus, homo, in many varieties. Nothing 
seems to possess advantages over metaphysics, if not indeed over 
everything else — for the former addresses our reason merely, the 
latter our senses. We can see nothing; who, hunting a ghost in a 
haunted room, or any other wild-goose chase, has not returned 
answer that he saw nothing ? Nothing may be heard, but only 
when everybody and everything else is silent; it may also be tasted 
— for who has not heard the expressively laconic complaint from 
a dissatisfied palate, that it tastes like nothing. The same m'ay 
be predicated of the senses of smelling and feeling. Some, as we 
before intimated, are impervious to feeling under any calamity; 
for they feel nothing ; such is their immobility, that the loss of 
property, character, friends, or relations, are all nothing to them. 
A word about nobody. 

Nobody is a most mischievous and meddlesome personage; for 
he is often engaged in the perpetration of some marvelous deeds. 
He is often guilty of arson, murder, and other grand misdemean- 
ors; he stirs up strife, and severs firm friends. It is also true that 
there are some "bright lights" in his character, and occasionally 
he is nobly implicated in some noble acts of beneficence. A 
certain tradesman who had long suffered, during his occasional 
absence from the coanter, from the carelessness of that invisible 



130 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



and irresponsible imp, " Nobody," at length bestowed the name on 
his eldest apprentice, and held him accountable for all the acts of 
the bodiless evil-doer. 

We offer to our fan- readers the following attempt to make 
something out of nothing : 

" U aO but 10 u, 
no but me ; 
let not my a go, 
But give I u so." 

The English version reads thus : 

" You sigh for a cypher, but I sigh for you ; 
sigh for no cypher, but sigh for me : 
let not my sigh for a cypher go, 
But give sigh for sigh, for I sigh for you so." 

Some, again, love nothing — others more amiable, hate it, and 
others are said to fear nothing. Some erudite authors fill their pon- 
derous pages in reality with — nothing, although ostensibly with 
words. What, indeed, could afford more demonstrable evidence 
of -its verity, than this present writing — nothing commenced it, 
nothing continued it, and — nothing must close it; and as this 
brings us to the dilemma of its endless duration, we at once take 
refuge in the following clever "summing up" of a sonnet, by an 
anonymous writer : 

" Mysterious nothing! bow shall I define 

Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness ; 
Nor form, nor color, sound, nor size are thine. 

Nor words, nor fingers, can thy voice express ; 
But though we cannot thee to ought compare, 

A thousand things to thee may likened be, 
And though thou art with nobody no where, 

Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee. 
How many books thy history contain, 

How many heads thy mighty plans pursue. 



SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING. 131 



What lab'ring hands thy portion only gain, 

What busy-bodies thy doings only do. 
To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend, 

And, like my sonnet — all in nothing end." 

We might here, perhaps, have effected a safe retreat from the 
entaglement of our knotty topic, were we not desirous of atoning 
for our trifling, by an attempt to educe a moral from it. Lest 
some should think we have proved the obverse of Avhat we pro- 
posed, and actually made nothing out of nothing, we are frank to 
confess, this is not what we designed in the treatment of this 
untenable and intractable topic. But to our moral. 

Some unfortunate persons, there may be, who are accustomed 
erroneously to construe the term we have so often played upon, as 
synonymous with others of a very different signification. For 
instance, those who are addicted to "libations deep" would have 
you believe that intoxication is nothing, — so would the purloiner, 
theft; — the profane, swearing; — the indolent, industry; — and the 
man of violence, murder. 

" 'T is nothing says, the fool ; but says his friend 
'T is nothing, sir, will bring you to your end !" 

And this sagacious couplet brings us to ours, in the words of 
a well-remembered classic author, which may be construed accord- 
ing to the taste of the reader, without impugning the modesty 
of the writer. 

" Nihil tetigit non ornavit !" 




PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 



" Of recreation, there is none 
So free as fishing is alone ; 
All other pastimes do no less 
Than mind and body doth possess. 
My hand alone my worlc can do, 
So 1 can fish and study too." 

It has been said that recreation, exactly considered, is an advan- 
tage which few, if any, are willing altogether to forego, and which 
the most severe philosophy does not deny. It is, in one form or 
other, the object of universal pursuit, — for without its participation 
to some extent, life would lose its principal attraction, and man- 
kind would degenerate into the settled gloom of moody melancholy. 
Relaxation from the severer toils of life is as necessary to human 
existence, as light is to the physical universe ; without its appropri- 
ate indulgence, all the pleasant things which impart their thousand 
charms to our social economy, would at once become eclipsed in 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 133 



the darkness of desolation and despair. If it bo true that man is 
the only animal that laughs, is it fair to infer that, by an occa- 
sional indulgence of his risible faculty, he is but fulfilling a part of 
his destiny. Very much might be urged in favor of a hearty 
laugh; it is not only highly exhilarating, but also very infectious, 
and the doctors tell us it is an excellent help to digestion and 
health. Shakspeare's adviceMs not only admissible, but decidedly 
to be commended, where he says : 

" Frame thy mind to mirth and merriment, 
Which bars a thousand hai-ms, and lengthens life." 

Who does not prefer a smiling face to a frowning one — the 
jocund Spring to the dark forms of Winter ? Somebody has 
said he would any day sacrifice a good dinner to gaze on a beauti- 
ful face; and scarcely any face looks otherwise when it is lit up 
with smiles; especially if it be a woman's. 

There are some ascetic souls whose lugubrious visages cast dark 
shadows wherever they go, and whose presence, like the fabled 
Upas tree, diffuses a deadly poison over all the felicities and 
gaieties of life. All nations have proved by common consent the 
fallacy of seeking to impose restraints against the necessary recre- 
ations of life — the temporary respite from toil; while the stern 
necessities of our mental and physical constitution have long 
since invested the usage with the authority of law. D'Israeli has 
an amusing chapter devoted to the amusements of the learned, 
from which we shall cite a few facts illustrative of, and introduc- 
tory to our subject : 

" It seems that among the Jesuits it was a standing rule of 
order, that after an application to study of two hours, the mind 
should be bent by some relaxation, however trifling. When 
Petavius was engaged upon his ' Dogmata Theologica,' a work of 
the most profound erudition, the favorite recreation of the learned 
father, was at the close of every second hour, to twirl his chair 
round for five minutes. Agesilaus, it is well known, amused him- 



134 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



self and his children by riding on a stick : the great Scipio 
diverted himself by picking up shells on the sea shore. Tycho 
Brahe amused himself with polishing glasses for spectacles and 
mathematical instruments; and Descartes beguiled himself of his 
literary labors, like John Evelyn, Pope, Cowper, and many 
others, in the culture of flowers. The great Samuel Clarke, was 
fond of regaling his logical abstractions by sundry antics, such as 
leaping over tables and chairs, and the ridiculous pastimes 
indulged in by the eccentric Dean Swift, are doubtless remem- 
bered by the reader. Contemplative men seem to have been 
fond of amusements accordant with their pm'suits and habits. 
The tranquil recreation of angling, has won a preference with 
many over more boisterous pursuits; from the fascinations 
imparted to it by the quaint and delightful work of Izaac 
Walton. Sir Henry Watton styles angling, 'Idle time not 
idly spent;' to a meditative mind, possibly, it may be so, but we 
think many a devotee of ' fly fishing,' will be found to have been 
much more lavish in his expenditure of time, than is warranted 
by its results. Paley, it may be remembered, was accustomed to 
indulge in this pursuit : he had a portrait painted with a rod and 
line in his hand, — a somewhat singular characteristic for the sage 
and reverend author of ' Natural Theology.' There are certain 
national indications connected with the amusements and recre- 
ations of a people. For example, the French, — unlike ourselves 
and the English, who toil ai>d tug at business ' from morn to dewy 
eve,' — spend half their time in their numerous resorts of amuse- 
ment, and emphatically take it 'cooly;' business of any kind being 
with them rarely an engrossing pursuit. 

"The Italian devotes three-fourths of his 'precious time,' to 
similar follies and fetes ; and the Spaniard is ' next of kin ' to him 
in this respect, for he both can scarcely be said to enjoy his 
leisure, since his life is almost uniformly a state of inertness. 
The German, on the contrary, is all the while absorbed in mystic 
abstractions, and etherializing aloft in the fumes of his meerschaum." 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 135 



" Almost everything else may be lost to a man's history," says 
Horace Smith, " l)ut its sports and pastimes; the diversions of a 
people being commonly interwoven with some immutable element 
of the general feeling, or perpetuated by circumstances of climate 
or locality, — these will frequently survive when every other 
national peculiarity has worn itself out, and fallen into oblivion." 
As the minds of children, modified by the forms of society, are 
pretty much the same in all countries, and at all epochs, there 
will be found but little variation in their ordinary pastimes, — a 
remark no less applicable to those nations, which, from their non- 
advancement in civilization, may be said to have still retained 
their childhood. 

Many of our school-games are known to have existed from the 
earliest antiquity. The province of the historian seems scarcely 
to have included the record in detail, of many of the more social 
enjoyments and domestic sports of olden time : these, although 
unwritten, still perpetuate themselves by oral transmission. We 
do not intend to dilate at length upon these, but simply to take a 
glance at the more prominent diversions and frolics with which 
society in former times beguiled itself of its sorrows, and the 
severer duties of life. We refrain from tracing our subject back 
to its earliest origin — the pastimes of a rude age — because they 
would naturally be expected to partake, in no small degree, of the 
manners and habits, of which they were the' reflex. We may 
infer from our own Indians, that athletic exercises and sports, as 
well as mimic military manreuvres, and the chase, were among the 
primitive diversions of mankind. Even down to the days of 
Elizabeth, the popular pastimes were rude and brutalizing in the 
extreme ; so that we must not venture to inquire very curiously 
concerning these matters, prior to that age; if we would judge 
them by the refinement and taste which are characterized by our 
modern modes of diversion, such as music, the fine arts, drama, 
and literary entertainments. 

We merely glance at the festivals, games and amusements of 



136 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



the Jews, Greeks and Romans, with their Olympic and Gladia- 
torial encounters, etc., and present the reader with a rough outline, 
illustrative of those of the moderns. 

Field sports still exist, under certain modifications, as they did 
under the " Mosaic dispensation :" for we read of Nimrod, " a 
mighty hunter," and the progenitor of his class. The chase has 
supplied the theme for more than one of the early classic writers ; 
Xenophon repudiated hunting as well as Solon. By the Roman 
law, game was never deemed an exclusive privilege, except when 
extending over private lands, when permission was to be obtained 
of the proprietor. "When Rome became overrun by the Goths and 
Vandals, they perverted the natural rights to a royal one ; a 
feature it still retains in many European States ; the prescrip- 
tive right to hunt over certain grounds being vested in the sove- 
reign, or those to whom the crown may delegate it. Accord- 
ing to Street, Edward the Confessor, though more of a monk 
than a monarch, " took the greatest delight to follow a pack 
of swift hounds in pursuit of game, and to cheer them on with his 
voice." 

He was equally pleased with hawking, and every day after 
divine service he spent his time in one or other of these favorite 
pursuits ; which indeed were the usual pastimes of the " upper 
ten thousand" of those rude days. Edward III. was such a 
devotee to sports of this kind that even during his hostile engage- 
ments with France, he could not refrain from the indulgence. 
While in the French dominions he had with him, according to 
Froissart, sixty couple of stag-hounds and as many hare-hounds, 
every day amusing himself at intervals with hunting or hawking. 
He is said to have kept a princely stud of horses and six hundred 
dogs for this purpose. 

This passion extended itself during the middle ages to the clergy : 
for Chaucer satirizes the monks for their predilection for the hun- 
ter's horn over the " trumpet of the gospel ;" and even in later 
times in England, sporting bishops and vicars have not been want- 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 131 



ing to provoke the just indignation of society. Queen Elizabeth 
used to patronize these sports, with a retinue of her courtly dames 
and lordly knights, even as late as her seventj^-seventh year — at 
wliich time it is recorded, " that her majesty was excellently dis- 
posed to hunting, for every second day she was to be seen on 
liorseback, continuing the sport for a long time." 

Tlicre is, it must be confessed, something picturesque in hawking 
and falconry, at least we think so, judging from the pictm-es and 
descriptions which have descended to us. Falconry, according to 
Smith, in his book on " Games and Festivals," appears to have 
been carried to great perfection, and to have been extensively 
pursued in the different countries of Europe about the twelfth cen- 
tury, when it was the favorite amusement, not only of kings and 
nobles, but of ladies of distinction, and the clergy, who attached 
themselves to it no less zealously than they had done to hunting, 
although it was equally included in the prohibitary canons of the 
church. For several ages no person of rank was represented with- 
out the hawk upon his hand, as an indisputable criterion of station 
and dignity : the bird of prey (no inappropriate emblem of nobility 
in the feudal ages) was never suffered to be long absent from the 
wrist. In traveling, visiting, or the transaction of affairs of busi- 
ness, the hawk still remained perched upon the hand, which it 
stamped with distinction. 

A writer of the fifteenth century severely reprobates the inde- 
cency of the custom then prevailing of introducing these strange 
insignia into the churches during divine service. The passage is 
thus rendered from the German by Barclay : 

" Into the churche then comes another sotte, 
Withouten devotion jetting up and downe 
For to be seene, and showe his garded cote. 
Another on his fiste a sparhawk or fawcoone. 
Or else a cockow, wastinge so his shone : 
Before tiie aulter he to and fro doth wander, 
Even vritli as great devotion as doth a gander. 



138 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



In comes another, his hounds at his tayle, 
With lynes and leases, and other like baggage: 
His doggs barke; so that withouten fayle. 
The whole churche is troubled by their outrage." 

Henry VIII. came near making his exit in a deep slougli at 
Hitcben, in Hertfordshire, by the breaking of his pole, an instru- 
ment used for leaping rivulets and brooks, when hawking was fol- 
lowed on foot. One almost regrets the non-success of the accident, 
as in ridding the country of a royal monster, the lives of his estim- 
able wives might have escaped the saci'ifice of his tyranny and vice. 
From the frequent mention of hawking by the water-side, by the 
writers of the time, it is to be inferred that the pursuit of aquatic 
fowl afforded the most diversion. The custom became obsolete 
about the end of the sixteenth century. 

With respect to archery, it is sufficient to remark that the bow 
was the most ancient and common of all weapons ; Ishmael, the 
wanderer, was an archer — so were the heroes of Homer, and the 
warriors of most nations. During the Heptarchy, Ofifrid, son of 
Edwin, King of Northumberland, was slain by an arrow ; other 
historic celebrities might be mentioned who shared a similar fate. 
The Saxons claim the introduction of both the long and cross-bow 
into Britain ; their successors the Danes were also great archers. 

The well-known story of Alfred the Great in the peasant's cot- 
tage, suffering her cakes to burn, was owing to his being engaged 
in jDreparing his bow and arrows. Of the great power and pre- 
cision with which arrows may be discharged, we have sufficient 
evidence without that afforded by the apochryphal exploits of 
Robin Hood or William Tell. Our Indians may be cited as speci- 
mens of the wonderful exactness of aim of which the instrument is 
susceptible. "The Turkish bow," quoth Lord Bacon, "giveth a 
very forcible shoot, inasmmch as it hath been known that the arrow 
has pierced a sheet target, or a piece of brass of two inches thick!" 
An arrow, it has been stated, with a round wooden head, has been 
shot upwards of four hundred and eighty yards from the standing. 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 139 



William Rufus, it will be remembered, was indebted to one of these 
swift-winged messengers of death, for his dismission from the field 
of strife : and the famous battle of Cressy bore testimony to their 
fatal use, to no inconsiderable extent ; as well as the memorable" 
contest of Agincourt, in 1415. The practice of archery possesses 
undoubted advantages in point of health and exercise, over most of 
the athletic diversions, or field sports, without any of their objec- 
tionable features. "It is an exercise," says Moseley, in his essay 
on archery, " adapted to every age, and every degree of strength ; 
it is not necessarily laborious, as it may be discontinued the 
moment it becomes fatiguing ; a pleasure not to be enjoyed by the 
hunter, who, having finished his chase, perceives that he must 
crown his toil with an inanimate ride to his bed of forty miles. 
Archery is attended with no cruelty : it sheds no innocent blood, nor 
does it torture harmless animals ; charges which lie heavy against 
some other amnseraents. It has been said that a reward was for- 
merly offered to him who could invent a new pleasure. Had such a 
reward been held forth by the ladies of the present day, he who 
introduced archery, as a female exercise, would have deservedly 
gained the prize — there are so few diversions in the open air, in 
which woman can join with satisfaction, suitable amusements have 
been wanting to invite them. Archery has, however, contributed 
admirably to supply this defect, and in a manner the most desirable 
that could be wished." 

The practice of baiting animals so naturally ^revolting to the 
popular taste of the present age, seems, in former times, to have 
been invested with something of the chivalrous and romantic. — 
These cruel entertainments are generally supposed to have origi- 
nated with the Moors ; Julius Caesar introduced them among the 
Romans, from them it was adopted by the Spaniards, the Portu- 
gese, the English, etc. The Spaniards have been the most barbar- 
ous in their refined cruelities in connection with this brutal sport; 
they have also invested its ceremonies with greater splendor and 
pageantry. To them the words of Thomson are eloquent of import: 



140 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



' Each social feeling fell, 
And joyless inhumanity pervades 
And petrifies the heart." 



In the Greek bull-fights, several of these devoted animals were 
turned out by an equal number of horsemen, each combatant 
selecting his choice of a victim, which he never quitted till he had 
vanquished. From the following account of a bull-fight in the 
Coliseum at Rome, 1332, extracted from Muratori by Gibbon, 
some idea may be formed of the ceremonies and dangers attending 
these extraordinary and brutalizing exhibitions : 

" A general proclamation as far as Rimini and Ravenna, invited 
the nobles to exercise their skill and courage in this perilous 
adventure. The Roman ladies were marshaled in three squad- 
rons, and seated in three balconies, which were lined with scarlet 
cloth. The lots of the champions were drawn by an old and 
respectable citizen, and they descended into the arena to encoun- 
ter the wild animals on foot, with a single spear. Amid the 
crowd were the names, colors and devices of twenty of the 
most conspicuous knights of Rome. The combats of the amphi- 
theatre were dangerous and bloody. Every champion successively 
encountered a wild bull, and the victory may be ascribed to 
the quadrupeds, since no more then eleven were left on the 
field with the loss of nine wounded, and eighteen killed on the side 
of their adversaries. Some of the noblest families might mourn, 
but the pomp of the funerals in the churches of St. John Lateran, 
and St. Maria Maggiore, afforded a second holiday to the people, 
which was, of course, a thing of superior moment. Doubtless it 
was not in such confiicts that the blood of the Romans should 
have been shed ; yet in blaming their rashness, we are compelled 
to applaud their gallantry," continues our author, " and the noble 
volunteers, who display their munificence and risk their lives under 
the balconies of the fair, excite a more generous sympathy than 
the thousands of captives and malefactors, who were reluctantly 
di'agged to the scene of slaughter." 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 141 



In Madrid, it is only during the summer these sanguinary scenes 
are exhibited, on account of the amphitheatre or circus, in which 
the spectators assemble, being uncovered. The following is a brief 
description of the ceremonies, which commence by a kind of i^ro- 
cession, in which the combatants, on horse and on foot, appear, 
after which two alguazils, dressed in perukes and black robes, 
advance, with great affected gravity, on horseback, and ask the 
president for the signal for the commencement of the entertain- 
ment. This is immediately given, and the fierce animal makes his 
appearance, rushing from his place of confinement into the circle, 
furious and eager for the fray. The officers of justice, who have 
nothing to do with the bull, hasten to retire, which is the prelude 
to the cruel pleasure the spectators are evidently impatiently wait' 
ing to enjoy. As the animal rushes in, he is received with loud 
shouts, which rend the air, and tend to excite to frenzy the infuria- 
ted beast ; when the picadores or equestrian combatants, dressed 
in a quaint old Castilian costume, and armed with a long lance, 
wait to meet and repel their antagonist. These encounters require 
of course, extraordinary courage and dexterity ; and formerly they 
were regarded as marks of honorable ambition and distinction, 
having sometimes been contended for by those of noble blood. 
Even at the present time hidalgos are said to solicit the honor of 
fighting the bull on horseback, and they are then previously pre- 
sented to the audience under the auspices of a patron connected 
with the court. If the animal becomes terror-struck, and seeks 
to avoid his persecutors, the execrations of the intelligent audi- 
ence are showered upon his devoted head, and if nothing else can 
awaken his courage and fury, the cry of perros ! perros ! brings 
forth new enemies, and huge dogs are let loose upon him. He 
then tosses the dogs into the air, and although they usually fall 
down stunned and mangled, they generally renew their attack till 
their adversary falls, thus an ignoble sacrifice to the wanton cru- 
elty of his lordly masters. Sometimes the bull, irritated by the 
pointed steel, gores the horse and overturns his rider, who, when 



l42 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



dismounted and disarmed, would be exposed to imminent danger 
did not attendant combatants divert the animal's attention by 
holding before him pieces of cloth of various colors. This act is 
attended, however, with great peril, the only rescue being by jump- 
ing over the barrier, which throws the spectators into a chaos of 
confusion from fear of the rabid animal's making a direct descent 
upon themselves. Our details of this inhuman custom have been, 
however, already too extended, and we return to more agreeable 
pursuits, in the hope that, in this boasted age of progress, some 
enlightened spirits may give a more worthy direction to the pas- 
times of the people of that once chivalrous, but now degenerate 
nation. It is to be regretted, however, that the sin of baiting 
animals does not rest alone with the Spaniards or the ancient 
Romans, — although the gladiatorial exploits of the cruel mon- 
sters, Nero and Commodus, surpass all for their savage brutality. 
James I., amongst other sapient performances, perpetrated a 
"Boke of Sports," for the regulation of popular pastimes and 
amusements, intimating by it what particular kinds of recreation 
were to be allowed on Sundays and festivals of the church — such 
as running, vaulting, morrice-dancing, etc., and prohibiting, upon 
those days, bowling, bear, and bull-baitings. A quaint old writer, 
Cartwright, (temp., 1572,) endeavoring to prove the impropriety 
of an established form of prayer for the church service; among 
other arguments, uses the following : " He (the clergyman) 
posteth it over as fast as he can gallope, for either he hath two 
places to serve, or else there are some gaymes to be played in the 
afternoon, to wit : such as lying for the whet-stones, heathenish 
dancing for the ringe, or a beare or a bull to be bated, or else a 
jackanapes to ride horseback, or an interlude to be played in 
churche." Bishop Burnet, in his "History of his own Times," 
speaking of this noted monarch, complains that his court fell 
into much extravagance in masquerading — "both king and court 
going a.bout masked, going into houses unknown, and dancing 
there with a great deal of wild frolic." This state of things 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 143 



included the early religious dramas and plays, in which the hea- 
then mythology and low buffoonery were strangely intermingled. 

As early as the ninth century, this pursuit formed an item of 
education, and was patronized by the noble. Alfred the Great 
was an expert hunter at twelve years of age; and Edward the 
Confessor, according to the ancient chronicles, "took the greatest 
delight to follow a pack of swift hounds in pursuit of game, and 
to cheer them on with his voice." William the Norman, and 
several of his crowned successors down to James I., seem to have 
been alike addicted to the pastime. The last named individual is 
said to have divided his time equally betwixt his standish, his bot- 
tle and his hunting, the last had his fan* weather, the two former 
his dull and cloudy. The bishops and nobles of the middle ages 
hunted with great state, and not a few of the moderns are still to 
be found in England, to do honor to the custom, both laymen and 
clergy, commons and nobles. 

In Hallam's " History of the Middle Ages" are many interesting 
particulars touching the irrepressible eagerness of the clergy for 
this recreation, with the ineffectual attempts of councils and 
decrees for its suppression. What should we think in our day, of 
an archbishop, with a retinue of two hundred persons for his train, 
(maintained at the expense of the Abbey, and the other religious 
establishments,) being met on their route, hunting from parish 
to parish ? — yet such an event actually took place in England, 
A. D. 1321. We have alluded to the fact that Queen Elizabeth was 
accustomed to indulge in the sports of the field at an advanced 
age ; and she was not the only member of the fair sex, who 
affected a passion for this manly pastime, for we find that in the 
seventeenth century, certain fair huntresses of Bury, in Suffolk, 
equipped themselves for the chase as men — a habit we might add, 
" more honored in the breach than the observance." In the year 
1758 a lady undertook to ride 1000 miles in as many hours; 
which feat she actually accomplished in one-third of that time: 
and even as recently as 1804 another undertook an equestrian 



144 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



race against a Mr. Flint for five hundred guineas, at Knavesmire, 
in Yorkshire ; she won the first heat, and would have achieved the 
second, had not her saddle-girth slipped. As she came in, she 
was cheered by the immensely assembled crowd with 

•' Push on, dear lady — pray don't the whip stint, 
To beat such as you must have the heart of a Flint." 

We read of some singular cases of blind sportsmen; among 
that class was the Rev. Mr. Stokes, who is said to have performed 
some surprising feats of "a leap in the dark." Whoi he had to 
leap, the servant accompanying used to ring a bell: and another 
individual, also blind, who was attached to the Marquis of Gran- 
by's celebrated hunt, was equally - expert, although he had usually 
no attendant: he trusted to chance. Prof. Saunderson, of Cam- 
bridge, a profound mathematician, though quite blind, was so 
fascinated with the chase, that he continued to hunt till an 
advanced period of his life. His horse was accustomed to follow 
that of his servant, and his delight was extreme when he heard 
the cry of the hounds and huntsmen, expressing his raptures with 
all the eagerness of those who possessed their sight. What real 
interest blind men can possibly experience in madly scampering 
over hedges and ditches, it is difficult to divine. 

Our Indians have what they call the " Hunters' Feast" — which 
somewhat resembles the Pentecost of the ancient Hebrews. Once 
a year certain tribes, beyond the Ohio, used to select from their num- 
ber twelve men, who went out and provided themselves with a like 
number of deer, when, after placing a heap of stones, so as to form 
a sort of altar, they sacrifice the spoil. It has been contended 
that a still closer analogy subsists between other of the Indian 
festivals and customs, with those of the nation referred to ; from 
which it has been conjectured that they were originally indebted 
to a common origin. The reader will doubtless excuse the follow- 
ing digression, even in a desultory essay, since he will form a good 
idea of the times and the sports then prevalent, from the quotation 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 145 



we venture to subjoin. The quaint lines to which we refer are 
from a work printed at London, 1611, entitled "The lettinge of 
humour's bloode in the head-vane ; with a new Morisce danced by 
seven Satyrss upon the bottome of Diogenes' tubbe!" 

" Man, I dare challenge thee to throw the sledge. 
To jump, or leape over ditch and liedge, 
To wrestle, play at stoolebal, or to runne, 
To pitch the barre, or to shoot off a gunne ; 
To play at loggets, nine holes, or ten pinnes, 
Or trye it out at foot-ball by the shinnes; 
At ticktack, Irish nodde, mawe, or ruffe, 
At hot-cockles, leap-frog, or blindman-buffe ; 
To drinke halfe-pots, or deal at the whole can; 
To play at base or pen-and-ynkhorn Sir I han ; 
To dance the morris, play at barley-breake. 
At all exploytes a man can thinke or speake ; 
At shove-groate, venter-poynte, or crosse and pile, 
At beshrow him that's laste at yonder style ; 
At leapinge o'er a midsummer-bon-fier. 
Or at the drawing deer out of the myer : 
At any of these, or all these presently, 
Wagge but your finger, I am for you, I." 

We do not pur])Ose any curious inquiries into these multitu- 
dinous diversions of our sober forefathers : enough for us to know 
that they had so liberal a variety, and that they seemed to indulge 
thera so heartily. As to the morality of the chase, we have 
nothing to say on that subject, except that if the charge of cruelty 
lie in the case of hunting game, the same may be alleged against 
angling, which pursuit good old Izaak "Walton so manfully defends, 
and so pleasantly discourses about. If there are plaintive and 
placid pleasures for the angler, there are exhilerating and inspiring 
associations for the hunter. 

Says Rennie, " Angling, as a sport, requires as much enthusiasm 
as poetry, and as much patience as mathematics. I could not be 
more than six or seven years old, when I sailed o:it one day to the 

7 



146 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



river Ayr, with a bent pin for a hook, as Christopher North has 
described so graphically and well;" but instead of a minnow or a 
beardie (the loach or stone loach of the South), I hooked a large 
trout; my yarn thread was strong enough to twitch out the trout to 
the green bank, where I stood, but the bank unfortunately sloped 
down to the water's edge, and my bent pin having no barb to 
take a firm hold, the trout slipped ofi^ and sprang down the bank, 
and in an instant, to my unutterable grief, Avas lost in the dark 
waters. I never angled with bent pin again ; as I grew older my 
passion for trout fishing absorbed many of my thoughts and much 
of my time, but far from unprofitably; for I have no doubt that 
this had great influence on my studies to the present time." 

Angling has ever been regarded a most manly, healthful, and 
attractive sport or recreation. It was practised by the Patriarchs 
and Apostles — by the learned, the benevolent, and the heavenly- 
minded at later periods; and, indeed, it has been followed with 
the greatest avidity by persons in every rank and condition in life, 
if not from the "beginning," surely from a time so remote, that 
human records and the traditions of men " run not the contrary." 

That the Patriarchs practised angling and fishing, is proven by 
the following passages from the Old Testament: "Canst thou 
draw out leviathan with a hook ? or his tongue with a cord which 
thou Idlest down ? "* " They take up all of them with the a')}gle, 
they catch them in their hit, and gather them in their drrig.''f 
" The Lord God hath sworn by His Holiness that, lo, the days 
shall come upon you, that they shall take you away with hooks, 
and your prosperity with _^5A //oo/is."| "The mourners also shall 
mourn, and all they that cast a7igle in the brooks shall lament, 
and they that spread nets upon the waters shall languish. "§ 

That a majority, at least of the apostles were fishermen, is 
evident from the 21st chapter of St. John's Gospel, where it is 
recorded that seven of them were together at the sea of Tiberms, 

• Job, 41 : 1, 2. f Habakkuk, 31 : 15. } Amos, 4ri. ^ Isaiah, 19 : 8 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 147 



and " Siraou Peter said unto them, I go a fishing, and they 
say unto him, we also go witli thee." But the Apostle Peter is 
the only one of the twelve who is known to have been an angler; 
and this is shown in the Gospel according to St. Matthew, H : 27, 
where our Lord says to Peter, " Go thou to the sea and cast 
a hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up, and when thou 
hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find a piece of money." 

Izaak Walton says : " Li this pleasant and harmless Art of 
Angling, a man hath none to quarrel with but himself, and he 
may employ his thoughts in the noblest studies, almost as freely as 
in his closet. The minds of anglers are usually more calm and 
composed than others; and suppose he take nothing, yet he 
enjoyeth a delightful walk, by pleasant views, in sweet pastures, 
among odoriferous flowers, which gratify his senses and delight 
his mind;" and he adds, "I know no sort of men less subject to 
melancholy than the anglers; many have cast off other recreations 
and embraced it, but I never knew an angler wholly cast off his 
affection to his beloved recreation." 

In the autobiography of the eccentric Lord Herbert of Cher- 
bury, we find these quaint and seemingly paradoxical observations, 
touching horsemanship : " I do not approve of the running of 
horses, there being much cheating in that kind of exercise ; neither 
do I see why a brave man should delight in a creature, whose 
chief use is to help him run away — yet a good rider on a good 
horse, is as much above himself and others as this world can make 
him." Next to the chase and shooting, angling was the principal 
out-door amusement, even with the gentler sex. In the reign 
of Charles II., ladies used to practice the art in the Canal of St. 
James' Park, London; according to Izaak Walton, "their tackle 
was very beautiful and costly, which they were fond of displaying." 
The piscatory art being one of our most popular of pastimes, it is 
unnecessary for us to dilate upon its fascinating attractions to those 
of a contemplative turn of mind. Some inveterate anglers must 
have a curious history to give of theu* experience ; for many of 



148 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



them have been odd fish themselves — flat fish, we may say, in some 
instances, since they wUl sit on a damp, muddy bank the live-long 
day, contented if they are but regaled with even the "delicious 
symptoms of nibble ;" while others are perfectly resigned to their 
fate, if they are but privileged to watch the w^ary fish as they wag 
their tails at his line, and adi'oitly steer away from the decoy of 
his tempting bait. These gentry need to be like good Izaak Wal- 
ton, of a contemplative habit, since such is their devotion to the 
pursuit, that they sometimes have no more substantial "food for 
reflection." There are certain individuals whose mawkish sensi- 
bilities are olfended at the cruelties of catching the tenants of the 
stream ; we share no sympathy with such, however, for if nature's 
laws ordain that the big fishes are to prey upon the little ones, we 
see no reason why creation's lord should not also appropriate any 
of them to his own use. Besides this, it will be recollected, the 
apostles even included fishermen. 

We pass now to notice briefly the well-known and popular 
sport — horse-racing, and its kindred associations. It has been 
conjectured that these amusements of the turf were in vogue with 
the Saxons, from the fact that Hugh, the founder of the House 
of the Caputs of France, among other royal gifts, " presented seve- 
ral running horses, with their saddles and bridles," etc. The grave 
John Locke, in one of his private journals, (167 9,) writes as follows: 

" The sports of England, which perhaps a curious stranger 
would be glad to see, are horse-racing, hawking and hunting, 
bowling, at Marebone and Putney, he may see several persons of 
quality bowling two or three times a week all the summer; wrest- 
ling in Lincoln's Inn Fields, every evening all summer; bear and 
bull-baiting, and sometimes prizes at the Bear Garden; shooting 
in the long bow, and stob-ball in Tothill Fields; cudgel-playing at 
several places in the country; and hurling in Cornwall." 

Of wrestling and pugilistic games we forbear to speak ; we 
may, however, remark en passant, that gymnastics and calisthenics 
are a meet substitute for the former, since they include all their 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 149 



advantages iu the development of physical strength, without any 
of their objectionable features. As a winter sport, skating natur- 
ally suggests itself as one of the most adoption. Tliis diversion is 
mentioned by a monkish writer as for back as 1170. A fast 
skater, ou good ice, will nearly equal the race-horse for a short 
distance ; in the year 1838, Mr. Simpson, of Cambridge, England, 
is said to have skated over a surface of forty miles, on indifferent 
ice, in two hours and a half; and mention is made of others hav- 
ing sliatcd two miles in live minutes. This is a diversion in v»^hich 
ladies may participate with grace, and it is also an invigorating 
and healthful exercise. Hundreds of the London belles may be 
seen thus sportively employed on a fine winter's day on the Serpen- 
tine river, Hyde Park. Like buffalo hunting — the most exciting 
because hazardous of all sports — however, skating is attended with 
the occasional risk of a fall on the ice, and sometimes under it, 
affording the courageous skater the benefit of a cold bath, with the 
chance of an entailed rheumatism, if not, indeed, loss of life itself. 
From the suggestion of a ducking under the ice, one is naturally 
reminded of swimming, or voluntary bathing, than which few 
expedients are more conducive to health and longevity. The world 
is now awake to this, and even the faculty are found frank enough 
to confess the fact, and recommend frequent ablutions. Our object 
being simply to take a swift survey of the recreative pursuits of 
mankind, we shall not be expected to offer anything touching the 
art and mystery of any. The important utility, in cases of acci- 
dent, of being able to swim, every one knows, but every one does 
not acquire the art notwithstanding ; yet it is easy of attainment, 
and also adds much to the pleasure of bathing. Cramps, crabs, 
and the chance of becoming food for fishes, are among the doubt- 
ful attractions of old Neptune, — healthfulness and vigor to the 
young, and rejuvenescence to the aged, as well as a delicious 
physical enjoyment, while in his rough embraces, — are among the 
positive pleasures. 

Tennis was a favorite game among the Romans ; it is less in 



150 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



vogue in modern times, cricket having to some extent usurped its 
place. Tlie latter is a peculiarly English pastime ; it is much more 
frequently indulged in Europe than in this country. All classes 
play at it in England ; some years past there was a strong contest 
between eleven Greenwich pensioners, with only one leg a piece, 
against an equal number of their brethren, who were minus an arm, 
but the one-legged boys won. As with many other English sports, 
females often join the band of cricketers : some time ago there was 
a match played between an equal number of married and unmar- 
ried females ; in which the matrons came off victors. Among the 
pastimes of the people, we ought to refer to dancing — the most 
universal, as well as one of the most ancient of all. During the 
earlier ages it was invested with the sanctity of a religious rite — 
the Levitical law of the Jews requiring it to be exhibited at the 
celebration of their solemn feasts ; the Psalms of David make fre- 
quent allusions to the practice, and, indeed, it is the opinion of 
some of the learned in Biblical criticism, that every psalm had its 
appropriate dance attached to it. In the temples at Jerusalem, 
Alexandria, and elsewhere in the East, a stage was erected for 
these exercises, called the choir — a term still retained in our 
churches, and now appropriated to the singers. The Greeks and 
Romans adopted dancing at their festivals after their ancestors, 
and the practice has continued uninterruptedly down to our own 
times. Even the red men of the forest have their various dances, 
devoted to the seasons, hunting and war ; and we might include 
the dancing Methodists and the Shakers in the category, as well 
as our modern theatrical performances of the ballet, the more 
private waltz and polka, etc. 

The description of the lavolta, in Sir John Davies' poem on 
dancing, the "Orchestra," (1596) shows that it must have closely 
resembled the dance which we fondly boast of as one of the great 
inventions of the nineteenth century. It runs as follows : — 

'• Yet is there one, the most delightful kind, 
A lofty jumping, or a leaping round, 



PASTIMES AKU SPORTS. 151 



^Vhcre arm and arm the dancers are entwined, 

And whirl themselves with strict embracements hound; 
And still their feet an anapicst do sound : 
An anapaest is all their music song, 
AVhose first two feet are short, and third is long."' 

Good old Bishop Hall observes, "Rccreatiou is intended to the 
mind as whetting is to the scythe, to sharpen the edge of it, which 
otherwise would grow dull and blunt. He therefore that spends 
his whole time in recreation is ever whetting, never mowing ; as 
contrarily, he that always toils, and never recreates, is ever mow- 
ing, never whetting — laboring much to little purpose : as good no 
scythe, as no edge. I would so interchange that I neither l)e dull 
with work nor idle and wanton with recreation." 

Every nation has its dauce, of one kind or another; so that 
universality proves that it is a nratural recreation. It is indeed, the 
best exercise for the limbs, and it is on this account highly recom- 
mended by physicians. It has this advantage too, as practised in 
civil society ; it promotes social intercourse between the two sex(!S ; 
refines and softens the manners of the one, and gives confidence 
to the other. Yet uniting these advantages, dancing by some is 
highly condemned. They object to it as a misapplication of time, 
and as calculated to divert the attention from objects of higher 
importance. True we ought not to let any pleasure occupy too much 
of our time and attention, but that youth needs some amusements, 
no person of age, when he calls to remembrance his own days of 
joyancc, will deny. And what amusement is there more inno- 
cent and rational than that of dancing ? It is innocent as it trans- 
gresses no positive rule, either human or divine; and rational as it 
tends to improve the person, the heart and the manners. Still 
we are frank to admit that as indulged in much of our modern 
fashionable society, dancing is made the occasion of inducing laxity 
in both morals and manners. This is its bane. 

As a recreative entertainment, dancing has much to recommend 
it to preference, as well as its tendency to develop the grace 



152 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



and poetry of motion. There are numerous domestic games 
and pastimes which might be mentioned, both of past times 
and the present; it may suffice simply to name the following — • 
chess and cards. An instance of chess upon a large scale is 
recorded of Don John of Austria, who had a room in his 
palace which had a pavement of checkered white and black 
marble; upon this living men, in varied costumes, moved under 
his directions, according to the laws of chess. It is also related 
of a Duke of Weimar, that he had squares of black and white 
marble on which he played at chess with real soldiers. A game 
a chess involves sometimes a severe test of temper; it is said 
the Swedish maidens used formerly to try the mettle of their 
husbands elect at the chess table, and that this ordeal decided 
their fate in the affair of matrimony. According to Mr. Basterot, 
a late French authority, this game was invented dui'ing the sixth 
century by an Indian Brahmin, called Sisla, who presented his 
invention to the reigning monarch, Sirham, requesting as a reward, 
one grain of wheat for the first square, two grains for the second, 
and fom* for the third, and so on, in geometrical progression, up 
to the sixty-fourth ; to reach the amount of this humble request, 
the author iaforms us, would require the entire wheat crop of 
France during one hundred and forty years. Of billiards, dice, 
and other games usually associated with the practice of gambling, 
as well as of theatricals in general, it is not necessary to speak, 
they being already familiar to the reader. 

We take our leave of the subject in the eloquent words of 
Alison, whose apology must commend itself to all : 

" It were unjust and ungrateful to conceive that the amuse- 
ments of life are altogether forbidden by its beneficent Author. 
They serve, on the contrary, important purposes in the economy 
of life,- and arc destined to produce important effects both upon 
our happiness and character. They are ' the wells of the desert ;' 
the kind resting-places in which toil may relax, in which the weary 
spirit may recover its tone, and where the desponding mind may 



PASTIMES AND SPORTS. 153 



reassume its strength aud its hopes. They are, in another view, 
of some importance to the dignity of individual character. In 
everything we call amnseniient, there is generally some display of 
taste and imagination; some elevation of the mind from mere 
animal indulgence. 

" Even in the scenes of relaxation, therefore, they have a ten- 
dency to preserve the dignity of human character, and to fill up 
the vacant and unguarded hours of life with occupations, innocent 
at least, if not virtuous. But their principal effect, perhaps, is 
upon the social character of man. Whenever amusement is 
sought, it is in the society of om- brethern; and whenever it is 
in our sympathy with the happiness of those around us. It be- 
speaks the disposition of benevolence, and it creates it. When 
men assemble, accordingly, for the purpose of general happiness 
or joy, they exhibit to the thoughtful eye one of the most pleas- 
ing appearances of their original character. They leave behind 
them, for a time, the faults of their station and the asperities of 
their temper; they forget the secret views and the selfish purposes 
of their ordinary life, and mingle with the crowd around them 
with no other view than to receive and communicate happiness. 
It is a spectacle which it is impossible to observe without emotion; 
and while the virtuous man rejoices at that evidence which it 
affords of the benevolent constitution of his nature, the pious man 
is apt to bless the benevolence of that God who thus makes the 
wilderness and the solitary place to be glad, and whose wisdom 
renders even the hours of amusement subservient to the cause of 
virtue. It is not, therefore, the use of the innocent amusements 
of life which is dangerous, but the abuse of them; it is not when 
they are occasionally, but when they are constantly pursued ; when 
the love of amusement degenerates into a pa^,sion; and when, 
from being an occasional indulgence, it becomes a habitual 
desire." 




DISTINGUISHED MEN 



"The grave's the pulpit of departed man, 
From it he speaks." — 

" The tongues of dying men 
Enforce attention like deep harmony : 
AVhere words are scarce, they 're seldom spent in vain, 
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain." — Shakspeare. 



Pliny asserts that he has frequently odserved, amongst the 
noble actions and remarkable sayings of distinguished persons in 
either sex, those which have been most celebrated have not always 
been the most worthy of admiration. The remark is no less true 
at the present day. Many of the unostentatiously great have 
passed away without the loud clarion of fame to echo their virtues 
to the living multitudes ! But for this, what a rich store of instruc- 
tion might have been garnered from the final utterances of many 
a heaven-bound spirit. " If," says an eminent theologian, " the 
reputation of the living were the only source from which the honor 
of our race is derived, the death of an eminent man would be a 
subject of immitigable grief." It is the lot of few to attain great 
distinction, before death has placed them above the distorting 
medium through which men are seen by their contemporaries. It 
is the lot of still fewer to attain it by qualities which exalt the 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. I5h 



character of our species. Envy denies the capacity of some • 
slander stigmatizes the principles of others ; fashion gives an occa. 
sional currency to false pretensions ; and the men l)y whom the 
age is hereafter to be known, are often too much in advance of it 
to be discernible by the common eye. All these causes combine to 
reduce the stock of living reputation as much below the real 
merits of the age, as it is below the proper dignity of man ; and he 
who should wish to elevate his spu'it by great examples of wisdom, 
genius and patriotism, if he could not derive them from the illus- 
trious dead, would have better reason than the son of Philip, to 
weep at the limits which confined him. To part with the great 
and good from a world which thus want them, and not to receive 
thereafter the refreshing influence of their purified and exalted 
fame, would be to make death almost the master of our virtue, as 
he appears to be of our perishable bodies. The living and dead 
are, however, but one family ; and the moral and intellectual afflu- 
ence of those, who have gone before, remains to enrich their pos- 
terity. The great fountain of human character lies beyond the 
limits of mortal life, where the passions cannot invade it. It is in 
that region, that among innumerable proofs of man's nothingness, 
are preserved the records of his immortal descent and destiny. It 
is there the spirits of all ages, after their sun is set, are gathered 
into one firmament, to shed their unquenchable light upon us. It 
is in the great assembly of the dead, that the philosopher and the 
patriot, who have passed from life, complete their benefaction to 
mankind, by becoming imperishable examjiles of virtue. Beyond 
the circle of those private affections which cannot choose, but 
shrink from the shafts of death, there is no grief then for the 
departure of the eminently good and wise. No tears but those of 
gratitude, should fall into the graves of such as are gathered in 
honor to their forefathers. By their now unenvied virtues and 
talents, they have become a new possession to posterity ; and when 
we commemorate them, and pay the debt which is their due, we 
increase and confirm our own inheritajice. Cyrus, in his last ago- 



156 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



nies, desired the Persians to rejoice at his funeral, and not to 
lament as if he were really dead. 

The ideas usually entertained respecting dissolution, are very 
unphilosophical. We are accustomed to associate the separation 
of the soul and body with horror and dread, as if death were 
necessarily agonizing and distressing, but this is far from being the 
case universally; the instances, indeed, to the contrary, are both 
numerous and striking. How frequently do we witness the 
departure of a spirit from its frail tenement, marked by all the 
placidity of a summer sun-set, wholly insensible to pain — rather 
indeed, joyously relinquishing its hold on things terrestrial ! Dr. 
Hunter was an instance of this kind. A few moments prior to 
his decease, he said to a friend who attended him, " If I had 
strength to hold a pen, I would write how easy and pleasant a 
thing it is to die." 

How grateful the contrast afforded by the last expressions of 
Addison, although savoring somewhat of ostentation, whose spirit 
was illumed by the cheering light of Divine truth. When he 
called to his bedside his profligate son-in-law, exclaiming, "Behold, 
with what tranquility a Christian can die !" 

Russell Lowell says, "Why should men ever be afraid to die, 
but that they regard the spirit as secondary to that which is but 
its mere appendage and conveniency — its symbol, its word, its 
means of visibility ? If the soul lose this poor mansion of hers by 
the sudden conflagration of disease, or by the slow decay of age, 
is she therefore houseless and shelterless ? If she cast away this 
soiled and tattered garment, is she therefore naked ? A child 
looks forward to a new suit, and dons it joyfully; we cling to our 
rags and foulness. We should welcome death as one who brings 
us tidings of the finding of long-lost titles to a large family estate^ 
and set out gladly to take, possession, though it may be, not 
without a natural tear for the humbler home we are leaving. 
Death always means us a kindness, though he has often a gruff 
way of offering it. 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 15T 



"The realm of death seems an enemy's country to most men, 
on whose shores they are loathly driven by stress of weather. 
To the wise man it is the dcsu'ed port where he moors his ))ark 
gladly, as in some quiet haven of the Fortunate Isles. It is the 
golden west into which his sun sinks, and sinking, casts back a 
glory upon the leaden cloud-rack which had darkly beseiged 
his day. 

" We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the 
flesh, and believe him the monster which the flawed and cracked 
glass represents him." 

The moralist inquires, how a man has lived? our curiosity is 
even more excited as to how he died ; and it is a no less interest- 
ing question to ascertain what influence mental cultivation has 
exerted on his last moments. 

The dying words of the great are regarded with thrilling inter- 
est. They often serve as indices to the previous life of individuals, 
as well as of their final destiny. 

The pious "Wesley, anticipating his approaching dissolution, 
exclaimed, "The best of all is, God is with us." John Locke 
exclaimed, " the depth of the riches of the goodness and 
knowledge of God. I have lived long enough, and am thankful 
that I have enjoyed a hap2:)y life, but after all look upon this life 
as nothing better than vanity." Says Young : 

" Death is the crown of life ; 
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain ; 
Were death denied, to live would not be life." 

How fearful and appaling is the contrast presented by the 
death of the scoffer and the infidel. 

" Brutes die but once ; 
Blest incommunicable privilege for which 
Proud man, who rules the globe ami reads the stars. 
Philosopher or hero, — sighs in vain." 

No ray of hope seems to gild his passage to the eternal world. 



158 SALAD FOR THE SOMTARY 



He gives no evidence, as does tlie good man when about to fall, 
with " one eye on tleath, and one full-fixed on heaven." 

The scoffer and the infidel may insultingly deride the pious 
believer, who takes the Word of God as " the man of his counsel;" 
they may affect to construe his joyous expressions to be mere exci- 
tations of the brain, and his hopes of a blissful immortality all a 
delusion; but inwardly, when honest with themselves, though 
cheats to the world, they will surely desire, with Balaam, to 
"die the death of the righteous." "Men may live fools, but 
fools they cannot die." The solemn hour of death brings a man 
to sober reason's sway, and the prospect of the grave — which, 
" as a dark lattice, lets in eternal day" to the good man's view 
— serves but to increase the darkness that hangs about the dying- 
reprobate. 

The death of cultivated men, has sometimes been marked by 
serenity and composure, from the ascendancy of their mental 
powers overcoming the terrors of death. This is, however, most 
triumphantly exhibited in the decease of the Christian, since he 
brings to the solemn occasion the soul-transporting influences of a 
" hope full of immortality." The degrees of mental supremacy in 
dissolution, cause the differences which characterize the last 
hours of men of various nations. The prevailing unintellectual 
tendencies of the Turks induce, consequently, their greater tena- 
city to life, from their indolent love of animal indulgence; the 
recklessness and uncivilized habits of the Arabs, and other 
predatory races, account for their utter indifference to the value 
of existence; and the calm philosophy of the Germans, their 
stoicism; while the mercurial volatility, and irritability of the 
French, supply us with the solution of the causes vvliich render 
them no less the victims of disquietude at the period of dissolution. 

Seneca endured pains that were long and violent, as he lay 
with his veins opened, pouring forth his life; yet his sufferings, 
acute as they must have been, could not repress his fortitude or 
his eloquence. He dictated, we learn from history, a discourse to 



DYIXG WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 159 



two secretaries, which was read with great avidity after his death 
by the people, but which has since perished in the wreck of time. 
Says a contemporary : 

" What a lesson is there taught in the withering rebuke and 
apostroplie of CtBsar, when he fell, cleft to the ground by the con- 
spirators' daggers : ' Et tu, Brute !' It reveals the faithlessness 
of friends, though deemed as firm as the sea-beaten rock; it shows 
the poignancy of the sorrow that momentarily \vi'ung the Emiier- 
or's bosom, when he perceived Brutus foremost in dealing the 
fatal blows. ' Et tu, Brute !' surely those words speak volumes — • 
lessons that should ever be garnered up fondly I The remark of 
the wicked and voluptuous Nero, in his dying moments, is worthy 
of record : ' Is this your fidelity ?' said he to a freedman, who, 
under pretence of staying the blood, was endeavoring to hasten 
his master's death." 

The poet Lucan, in the very act of expiring, repeated the beau- 
ful description, in his own poem of the " Pharsalia,^^ of a person 
in his precise circumstances. 

The story of Arria exhibits a memorable instance of heroic 
fortitude. Poetus, her husband, having joined Scribonianus, w^ho 
was in arms, in Illyria, against Claudius, was taken, after the 
death of the latter, and condemned to death. Arria, having in 
vain solicited his life, persuaded him to destroy himself, rather 
than submit to an ignominious end. Pliny records, she plunged 
the dagger into her breast, and then presented it to her husband, 
exclaiming, " Poetus, it is not painful !" Marc Anthony died, 
exhorting Cleopatra not to lament, but to congratulate him upon 
his former felicity; since he considered himself as one who had lived 
the most powerful of men, and at last as perishing by the hand of 
a Roman. Cleopatra's end was equally indicative of her char- 
acter; her love to Anthony, even after his decease, remained true. 
In all her georgeous robes she feasted at a splendid banquet, 
previous to applying the asp; her attendants found her on a 
gilded couch, even 



160 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" More beautiful in death than life." 



Near her, Inas, one of her faithful attendants, was stretched life- 
less at her feet ; and Charmion, herself almost expiring, was set- 
tling the diadem upon Cleopatra's head. " Alas !" cried one of 
the messengers, "was this well done, Charmion?" "Yes," she 
repUed, " it was well done ; such a death becomes a glorious 
queen, descended from a race of noble ancestors." On pronounc- 
ing these words, she fell down and died with her much-loved 
mistress. So much for heathen heroism and devotedness. 

We have many instances of persons who have evinced their 
strength of mind, by composing verses when on the point of death. 
The Emperor Adrian, before expiring, it is stated, composed the 
celebrated epigram, " Animula Vagula BlandulaP Salmasius, 
attacked by a mortal disease, still young, and while in momentary 
expectation of death, composed his epitaph in verse. We have 
abundance of instances on record, however, of the last moments of 
celebrated men, evincing 

" The ruling passion strong in death." 

And even is this the case with some of that limited number of the 
world's great thinkers and seers, who discern 

" The far-off mountain-tops of distant thoughts, 
That men of common stature never saw," 

When Alfieri drew near his end, he was persuaded to see a 
priest, but on his appearing, he begged him to defer his visit to 
another day. On the morrow, when the official again appeared, 
he urged, "At present I have but a few minutes to hve," and 
entreating that the Countess of Albany — widow of Stuart, the 
Pretender — might be called, exclaimed, on seeing her, " Clasp my 
hand, my dear friend, I die !" and immediately expired. Petrarch 
died of apoplexy, seated in his hbrary, with one arm resting on a 
book. De Lagny, who was intended by his friends for the study 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 161 



of the law, having fallen on Euclid, found it so congenial to his 
disposition, that he devoted himself to mathematics. In his last 
moments, when he retained no further recollection of the friends 
surrounding his bed, one of them, perhaps to make a philosophical 
e.\j)eriment, thought proper to ask him the square of 12 ; our 
dying mathematician instantly, and perhaps without knowing that 
he answered, replied, " 144." Pere Bouhours was a French gram- 
marian, who had been justly accused of paying too scrupulous 
an attention to the miuutias of letters. He was more solicitous of 
his words than his thoughts. It is said, that when he was dying, 
he called out to his friends, (a correct grammarian to the last,) 
" Je VAS, ou je^ vais monrir; Pun ou Vautre se dii." When Mal- 
herbe was dying, he reprimanded his nurse for making use of a 
solecism in her language. And when his confessor represented to 
him the felicities of a future state, in low and trite expressions, 
the dying critic thus interrupted him, — "Hold j^our tongue; 
your wretched style only makes me out of conceit with them." 
The favorite studies and amusements of the learned La Moth le 
Yayer consisted in accounts of the most distant countries. He 
gave a striking proof of the influence of this master-passion, when 
death hung upon his lips. Bernier, the celebrated traveler, enter- 
ing, and drawing the curtains of his bed to take his eternal fare- 
well, the dying man turned to him, and with a. faint voice inquired, 
"Well, my friend, what news from the Great Mogul?" The 
virtuous Erasmus, when dying, exclaimed, " Domine ! Domino ! 
fac finera ! fac finem !" Boyle, having prepared his proof for the 
printer, pointed to where it lay when dying. The last words of 
Lord Chesterfield were, " Give Dayroles a chair." The last words 
of Nelson were, " Tell Collingwood to bring the fleet to an anchor." 
Charles I., on the scaffold, said, " I fear not death ! death is not 
terrible to me." Sir Thomas More pleasantly said, when mount- 
ing the scaffold, "I pray you see me up safe ; and for my coming 
down, let me shift for myself." Rousseau called his wife to the 
bedside, and told her to throw up the window, " that he might see 



162 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



once more the magnificent scene of nature." How noble the tes- 
timony of Frederic Y., of Denmark, who, in his last moments 
exclaimed, " It is a great consolation to me, in my last hour, that 
I have never wilfully offended any one, and that there is not a 
drop of blood on my hands." Whether true or fabulous, Homer 
is said to have died of grief, at not being able to expound a 
riddle, propounded by some simple fisherman — " Leaving what 's 
took, what we took not, we bring !" a knotty point, it is true, 
but scarcely worth the expense of one's precious vitality. 

Chaucer repeated in his last moments, the " Balade made 
by Geoffrey Chaucyer, upon his dethe bedde, lying in his grete 
anguisse." As few readers may be familiar with these beautiful 
stanzas, we subjoin a portion of them, with the orthography 
modernized : 

" Fly from the crowd, and be to virtue true, 

Content with what thou hast tho' it be small ; 
To hoard brings hate ; nor lofty thoughts pursue — 

He who climbs high endangers many a fall, 
Envy 's a shade that ever waits on fame, 
And oft the sun that rises, it will hide. 
Trace not in life a vast expensive scheme, 
But be thy wishes to thy state allied. 
Be mild to others, to thyself severe. 
So truth shall shield thee, or from hurt or fear." 

Waller affords a somewhat similar instance with the above. 
He expired in the act of rehearsing some favorite passage from 
Virgil. The Earl of Roscommon, when about to expire, uttered, 
with the energy of devotion, these two lines of his version of 
Dies Irffi : 

" My God, my father, and my friend, 
Do not forsake me in my end." 

Tasso's dying request to Cardinal Cynthia, is expressive of that 
settled melancholy which hung over him through life : " I have 
but one favor to ask," said he, "that you would collect my works, 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 163 



and commit them to the flames; particnUirly iny ,/er«.?7/t7/i Dllv- 
ered" But how beautifully pathetic are the last words he uttered — 
" In manus tuns Dojnine" — though life became extinct before 
he could pronounce more. Klopstock expired in the rehearsal 
ot his own beautiful verses, descriptive of the death of Mary, the 
sister of Mary and Lazarus. This song of Mary, observes Madame 
de Stael, was sung at the public funeral of the poet. 

It is well known that Dr. Johnson, with all his powerful 
intellect, such was his singular dread of dissolution, that he could 
scarcely be persuaded to execute his will, lest the act should 
hasten his end. When a friend called upon him he cxckiiined, 
in a melancholy tone, "Jam moriturus." The " dread monster," 
on the last day of his existence, came to his mental appre- 
hension envisaged Avith all the horrors that had so haunted 
him through life. Hazlitt on his death-bed presented a melan- 
choly spectacle. His highly cultivated powers were tasked to 
their utmost. Yet fickle fortune was so chary of her favors that 
he early became the victim of calumny, poverty and death. On 
his death-bed he was so distressed with the sense of his pecuniary 
obligations, that he dictated a letter to Jeffrey, of Edinburgh, 
soliciting a grant of money. The reply came with £50 — the day 
after his decease. Byron was of excessive nervous irritability; he 
died, according to Dr. Madden, muttering inaudiljly some verses 
about his sister and child, but so inarticulately as not to have been 
understood. Cowper, the most surprising instance of nervous mel- 
ancholy throughout the greater pei'iod of his life-time, happily 
was permitted to resign his sjjirit, cheered l)y the blessed assurance 
of Christian hope, — his end was as calm as a sleep. Mary, Scot- 
land's ill-fated Queen, met death under the most appalling circum- 
stances, with a degree of firmness and heroic resolution, strikingly 
opposed to what might have been looked for from so gentle a 
creature, oppressed with such heavy misfortunes, — deserted by 
every professed friend, with only her faithful little dog to share 
her sorrows. 



164 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



Cljirendon's pen dropped from his hand when seized with a 
palsy, which put an end to his existence. 

The dying exclamation of the excellent Bishop Porteus is indi- 
cative of a mind in happy harmony with nature and nature's (jfod. 
Sitting in his library, at Fulham, on a balmy eve of May, the 
countenance of the good prelate beamed with a transient glow, 
and in the grateful gladness of his heart he exclaimed, as his 
delighted eye caught a glimpse of the setting sun, " 0, that glori- 
ous sun !" " Soon after," adds his biographer, "he fell asleep, and 
a brighter sun broke upon him." 

Napoleon's last words were, " tefe (rarmee" an unmistakable 
evidence how his thoughts were occupied on the eve of his depar- 
ture from his warlike career. What words could be supposed 
more in accordance with the tenor of his history ? He died in his 
military garb, which he had ordered to be put on a short time 
previous to his dissolution. 

Instances occur to us of terrible death-beds, such as that of the 
wretched atheist, Altamont, the sad story of whose mental anguish, 
at the moment of dissolution, is too harrowing for recital here. 

Cardinal Beaufort, accused of having murdered the Duke of 
Gloucester, the faithful remembrance of which seemed to have 
filled his mind with indescribable terrors; for it is stated, his end 
was one of the most terrible ever witnessed. His last words were — 
" And must I then die ? — will not all my riches save me ? I could 
purchase a kingdom, if that would save my life ! What I is there 
no bribing death ?" Shakspeare's description of the Cardinal's 
death is awfully yet scrupulously true. 

The death-bed of the Countess of Nottingham was one of re- 
morse, from her faithless conduct towards the unfortunate Earl of 
Essex. 'Tis said Elizabeth shook her on her dying couch, with 
" God may forgive you, but I never will." This same queen, iu 
her turn, endured the pangs of au unappeased conscience in her 
last moments; for she exclaimed, " All my possessions for a moment 
of thne." Ou the other hand, how many have met death as a 



DYING WORDS OK D t STiNGt 1 SH E D MEN. 165 



holy thing, rejoicing ia the casting ofif the Ifondage of earth; a 
calm and peace have pervaded their actions, and a smile has 
heightened their angelic looks, as they fled from time to eternity. 
Anne Boleyn was perfectly resigned to her fate; her thoughts 
were on another world. She observed, clasping her neck, " It is 
but small — very small." The deaths of that hapless yet beauti- 
ful pair. Lord Dudley and the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey, were 
marked by a pious and settled composure: of the latter 'tis truth- 
fully said — 

" Yet here she kneels in her unfolding years, 
All yet unreached the height of •womanhood, 
Kneels face to face with death, and feels no fears, 
Thougli the keen axe be soon to drink her blood : 
Calm looks she, as the seaman on the flood, 
Which, though it loudly rage, and wildly foam, 
Shall bear him bravely to his distant home." 

D'Aubigne, in his History of the Reformation, thus describes 
the last hours of Cardinal Wolsey. " On Monday morning tor- 
mented by gloomy farebodings, Wolsey asked what was the time 
of day. ' Past eight o'clock,' replied Cavendish. ' That cannot 

be,' said the Cardinal; 'eight o'clock! No! for by eight 

o'clock you shall lose your master.' At six o'clock on Tuesday, 
Kingston having come to inquire about his health, Wolsey said to 
him, ' I shall not live long.' ' Be of good cheer,' rejoined the 
Governor of the Tower. ' Alas, Master Kingston 1' exclaimed 
the Cardinal, ' if I had served God as diligently as I have served 
the King, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs !' 
and then he added with downcast head, ' This is- my just reward 1' 
What a judgment upon his own life ! 

" On the very threshold of eternity, for he had but a few minutes 
more to live, the Cardinal summoned up all his hatred against the 
Reformation, and made a last effort. The persecution was too 
slow to please him. ' Master Kingston,' he said, ' attend to my 
last request; tell the King that I conjure him, in God's name, to 



166 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



destroy the new pernicious sect of Lutherans;' and then, with 
astonishing presence of mind in this his last hour, Wolsey described 
the misfortunes which the Hussites had, in his opinion brought 
upon Bohemia; and then coming to England, he recalled the times 
of Wicklifife, and Sir John Oldcastle. He grew animated; his 
dying eyes yet shot forth fiery glances ! He trembled, lest Henry 
YIII., unfaithful to the Pope, should hold out his hands to the 
Reformers. ' Master Kingston,' said he in conclusion, ' the King 
should know that if he tolerates heresy, God will take away his 
power, and we shall then have mischief upon mischief — barrenness, 
scarcity and disorder to the utter destruction of this Realm.' 

"Wolsey was exhausted by the effort. After a momentary 
silence he resumed, with a dying voice, ' Master Kingston, fare- 
well I My time draweth on fast. Forget not what I have said 
and charged you withal ; for when I am dead, ye shall, peradven- 
ture, understand my words better I' It was with difficulty he 
uttered these words ; his tongue began to falter, his eyes became 
fixed — his sight failed him. He breathed his last at the same 
minute the clock struck eight; and the attendants standing round 
his bed looked at each other in affright. It was the 20th of 
November, 1530. 

Sir Isaac Newton died in the act of winding up his watch — a 
singular emblem of the winding up of his own career. Haller, 
feeling his pulse, exclaimed, " the artery ceases to beat," and 
instantly expired. The following stanzas, penned on the bed of 
sickness, merit notice, from their richness and soft harmony. The 
author's name is Wood, who resided in Kent, England, compara- 
tively unknown to fame; yet his muse is evidently endowed with a 
keen relish for Nature's beauties, for he seems to riot in her 
magnificent charms. Feelingly he wrote, on his dying couch, the 

following : 

" Now bear me hence away, 
I like not this close room, so small and dim ; 
Around the curtained bed are shadows grim. 
Which jauntly play. 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 167 



Turning my mind from prayer ; 
I know they tell me of my coming fixte, 
But oh ! not here — I would the change await 

In the cool air." 

Haydn's faculties, like those of many other men celebrated for 
their genius, were impaired before his frame. His latter years 
were those of a drooping and demented old man. He was some- 
times visited by strangers; they found him in a simple chamber, 
sitting before a desk, with the melancholy look of one who felt 
that all his early powers were gone. When he took notice of his 
visitors he smiled, and tears stole down his cheeks; but he some- 
times seemed to feel sudden bursts of memory, and talked strik- 
ingly of his early career. 

When the war broke out between Austria and France, in 1809, 
the intelligence roused Haydn, and exhausted the shattered rem- 
nant of his remaining strength. He was continually inquiring for 
news; he went every moment to his piano, and sang, with the 
slender voice left to him — 

" God preserve the Emperor !" 
The French armies advanced with gigantic strides. At length, 
having reached Schoenbrun, half a league's distance from Haydn's 
little garden, they fired, the next morning, fifteen hundred cannon 
shot, within two yards of his house, upon Vienna, the town which 
he so much loved. The old man's imagination represented it as 
given up to fire and sword. Four bombs fell close to his house 
His two servants ran to him full of terror. The old man, rousing 
himself, got up from his easy-chair, and with a dignified air, 
demanded, "Why this terror? — Know that no disaster can come 
where Haydn is." A convulsive shivering prevented him from 
proceeding, and he was carried to his bed. His strength dimin- 
ished sensibly. Nevertheless, having caused himself to be carried 
to his piano, he sung thrice, as loud as he was able — "God pre- 
serve the Emperor !" It was the song of the swan. While at the 
piano, he fell into a kind of stupor, and expired. 



168 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



Haydn was very religious during the whole of his life. At the 
commencement of all his scores, he inscribed, In nomine. Dominie, 
or Soli Deo gloria; and at the conclusion of all of them is written, 
Laus Deo. When, in composing, he felt his imagination decline, 
or was stopped by some difficulty which then appeared insur- 
mountable, he rose from the piano-forte and began to run over his 
rosary, and he said he never found this method fail. — "When, 
says he, "I was employed upon 'The Creation,' I felt myself 
so penetrated with religious feelmg, that, before I sat down to 
the instrument, I prayed to God with earnestness, that He would 
enable me to praise Him worthily." This master-piece was the 
fruit of nine years' toil. 

We give another anecdote of his brother-composer, Mozart : he 
seems, however, to have suffered, like Johnson, from prevailing 
fears of death. — There is something strikingly beautiful and 
touching in the cii'cumstances of his death. " His sweetest song 
was the last he sung " — the " Requiem." He had been employed 
upon this exquisite piece for several weeks — his soul filled with 
inspirations of richest melody, and already claiming kindred with 
immortaUty. After giving it its last touch, and breathing into it 
that undying spirit of song which was to consecrate it through all 
time, as his " cygnean strain," he fell into a gentle and quiet 
slumber. At length, the light footsteps of his daughter Emilie 
awoke him. " Come hither," said he, " my Emilie — my task is 
done — the Requiem — my Requiem is finished." "Say not so, 
dear father," said the gentle girl, interrupting him, as tears stood 
in her eyes; "you must be better — you look better, for even now 
your cheek has a glow upon it. I am sure we will nurse you well 
again — let me bring you something refreshing." " Do not deceive 
yourself, my love," said the dying father; " this wasted form can 
never be restored by human aid. From Heaven's mercy alone do 
I look for aid, in this my dying hour. You spoke of refreshment, 
my Emilie — take these, my last notes — sit down by my piano 
here — sing them with the hymn of thy sainted mother — let me 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 169 



once more hear those tones which have been so long my solace- 
ment and delight." Erailie obeyed; and with a voice enriched 
with tendercst emotion, sung the following stanzas : 

" Spii'it ! thy labor is o'er ! 
Thy term of probation is run, 
Thy steps are now bound for the untrodden shore, 
And the race of immortals begun. 

Spirit ! look not on the strife 
Or the pleasures of earth with regret — 
Pause not on the threshold of limitless life, 
To mourn for the day that is set. 

Spirit ! no fetters can bind. 
No wicked have power to molest ; 
There the weary, like thee — the wretched, shall find 
A haven — a mansion of rest. 

Spirit ! how bright is the road 
For which thou art now on the wing ! 
Thy home it will be with thy Savionr and God, 
Their loud hallelujahs to sing." 

As «h6 concluded, she dwelt for a moment upon the low, 
melnncholy notes of the piece, and then turning from the instru- 
ment, looked in silence for the approving smile of her father. It 
was the still, passionless smile which the rapt and joyous spirit 
had left, with the seal of death upon those features. 

The demise of Beethoven was peculiarly impressive. He had 
been visibly declining, when suddenly he revived — a bright smile 
illumed his features, as he softly murmured, " I shall hear in 
heaven," and then sung in a low, but distinct voice the lines from 
one of his own beautiful hymns — 

»' Brtider ! Ober'm Sternenzeldt, 
Muss ein lieber Voter wohnen." 

We turn again, for a moment, to the closing scenes of some of 



1*10 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



the earlier poets, — citing a few cases at random. The two we 
commence with are melancholy enough. 

Otway, the dramatist, died at the early age of thirty-four; 
though, in the manner of his death, his biographers somewhat 
differ. It is said that, having been compelled by his necessities 
to contract debts, and hunted by the terriers of the law, he 
retired to a public house on Tower Hill, where he died of want ; 
or, as it is related by one of his biographers, by swallowing a 
piece of bread, which charity had supplied after a long fast. He 
went, as is reported, almost in a nude state, and in the rage of 
hunger, finding a gentlemen in a neighboring coffee-house, he 
asked him for a shilling. The gentleman gave him a guinea; 
when Otway, going away, bought a roll, and was choked with 
the first mouthful. Pope says that Otway died of a fever, 
caught by a violent pm'suit of a thief, who had robbed one of his 
friends. But that indigence, and its concomitants, sorrow and 
despondency, pressed hard upon him, has never been denied, 
whatever immediate cause might have brought him to the grave. 

Philip Massinger, the immediate successor of Shakspeare, and 
second only to him as a di'amatic poet, — often as majestic, and 
generally more elegant than his master, — was as powerful a ruler 
of the understanding as the Bard of Avon was of the passions. 
And yet, with such rare talents, Massinger appears to have main- 
tained a constant struggle with adversity, and to have enjoyed no 
gleam of sunshine. Life was to him one long wintry day, and 
"shadows, clouds and darkness" sat upon it. For its quaint 
terseness, we here cite some stanzas on death by one of the old 
poets : 

*' The longer life, the more offence ; 

The more offence, the greater pain ; 
The greater pain, the less defense ; 

The less defense, the lesser gain— 
The loss of gain long ill doth try. 
Wherefore, come, death, and let me die. 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. Ill 



The shorter life, less count I find: 

The less account, the sooner made ; 
The count soon made, the merrier mind ; 
The merrier mind doth thought invade- 
Short life, in truth, this thing doth try, 
Wherefore, come, death, and let me die. 

Come, gentle death, the ebb of care; 

The ebb of care, the flood of life ; 
The flood of life, the joyful fare ; 

The joyful fare, the end of strife — 
The end of strife, that thing wish I, 
Wherefore, come, death, and let me die." 



The last lines penned by Sir Walter Raleigh, on the night pre- 
vious to his execution, may be familiar to the reader : they 
commence — 

" Go, Soul, the body's guest, 

Upon a thankless errand, 
Fear not to touch the best. 

The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
Go, since I needs must die. 
And give the world the lie. 

Go, tell the Court it glows 

And shines like soften wood ; 
Go, tell the Church it shows 

What's good, and doth no good. 
If Church and Court reply. 
Then give them both the lie." 

When on the scaffold, he desired to see the axe ; and feeling 
the edge of it, said to the sheriff, " This is a sharp medicine, but 
a sure remedy for all evils !" Being asked which way he chose to 
place himself on the block, he replied, " So the heart be right, it 
is no matter which way the head lies ;" and giving the signal, he 
received the stroke with the most perfect composure. Such was 
the end of this great and illustrious man, of whom the age was not 
worthy. 



112 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



When the poet Goethe, after more than the usually allotted 
term of human existence, was met by the summons, it found him 
still busy with the pen, the implement at once of his pleasure and 
his power ; and he sank as a child, who, with the glow of the 
day's activity still on his cheek, looking forward to a morrow of 
hope and joy, folds himself to sleep. " Let the light enter" were 
his last words, "echoed, we may suppose," says his biographer, 
" from a region where all is light." 

We gather from the interestmg memou'S of that surprising 
woman, Madame de Stael, that her last expressions, addressed to 
Chateaubriand, were, " I have loved God, my father, and liberty ;" 
and on quoting the memorable words of Fontenelle, "I am a 
Frenchman, fourscore years old, yet I never ridiculed the slightest 
virtue ;" she added, with strong emphasis, " I can say as much of 
the slightest suffering " — a noble confession, worthy of all imitation. 

We find when that voluminous writer. Sir Walter Scott, was 
near his end, he expressed a wish to Lockhart, his son-in-law, that 
he would read to him ; and when asked from what book, he 
replied, " Need you ask ? there is but one I" Lockhart then read 
the 14th chap, of John's Gospel, " Let not your heart be troubled," 
etc., to which, adds the biographer, Su* Walter listened with mild 
devotion, and then replied — " Well, this is a great comfort ; I have 
followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to he myself 



/" 



again 

It is refreshing to find some evidences of deep consciousness of 
the vast solemnity befitting a dying hour, among men endowed 
beyond the average of their race with intellectual strength ; as in 
the case of Grotius, who, on being asked for his dying admonition, 
exclaimed, " Be serious .'" All his vast learning did not allow him 
to think lightly of the paramount claims of those things which 
make for our eternal peace. Sir William Jones, one of the most 
brilliant geniuses that ever lived, afi'ords similar evidence of the 
right estimate of human learning, compared with the more impor- 
tant concerns of the future world. " It matters not," says Johnson, 



DYING WORDS OP DISTINGUISHED MEN. l*lS 



" bow a man dies, but how he lives." And even skeptical Rousseau 
observes: "Tlie great error is, placing such au estimate on this 
life, as if our being depended on it, and we were nothing after 
deatli." To attach ourselves but slightly to human affairs, is the 
best method of learning to die. When Garrick showed Dr. John- 
son his fine house and gardens, at Hampton Court, instead of his 
replying in the language of flattery, he exclaimed, " Ah I David, 
David, these are the things which make a death-bed terrible." 
And at the dying couch of one of the ancient philosophers, when 
some attendants were softly speaking upon some metaphysical 
topic, he eagerly opened his eyes, and said, "Let me understand 
what you are discoursing about, that then I may die." Alas 1 
how little, after all their toil and assiduity, can even the greatest 
men attain ! Xewton confessed to this, when he compared his 
vast scientific acquisitions in the view of the boundless regions of 
unexplored knowledge, to a child picking up pebbles by the sea side. 
To thinking minds, time is never so impressively marked, as by 
the successive exit of the great men of an age. The constellation 
which ushered in the present epoch, is going out one by one. 
Goethe, Scott, Byron, Coleridge, Lamb, Southey, have departed; 
and the amiable and enchanting melody of L. E. L. and Felicia 
Hemans, we hear no longer in new outgushings of their muse. 

The closing scenes of Mrs. Hemans' life display her affection 
in a high and rich degree. The recurrences to childhood show 
how quiet her conscience, and how mellowed her memory: her 
conversations with her sister all breathe a hope of immortality; 
the anxious yearning of a mind free from the impurities of earth, 
and ready to participate in that pleasure wliich is shared in a land 
her own pen has so touchingly depicted : 

" Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, 
Sorrows and death may not enter there, 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom." 

As is the case with most, if not all who write, day after day, 



174 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



for the bread that perisheth, she endured rather than enjoyed 
life. A heart disease, with all its distressing accompaniments, 
harassed her mind, and wore away her frame, which, we are told, 
became towards the last, almost etherealized. At the compara- 
tively early age of forty-one, on the eve of the Sabbath, her 
spirit passed away, to enter on the Sabbath of eternal rest, earth 
having scarcely " profaned what was born for the skies." On her 
tomb, in St. Ann's Chm'ch, Dublin, is insci-ibed one of" her own 
beautiful verses — her most appropriate epitaph : 

" Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 
Dust to the narrow home beneath ! 

Soul to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die." 

The following lines were written by John Keats on his death- 
bed, and are the last verses ever penned by that gifted young 
poet. It will be remembered he died through intense grief, on 
account of the too severe and unjust criticisms of Gififord, the 
English Juvenal. The youthful poet was removed to Italy where 
he expured; and the last sad words he whispered were, "I die of 
a broken heart." Many pieces have purported to be his last pro- 
duction; but these now transcribed are the last that ever emanated 
from his pen : ^ 

*• My spirit's lamp is faint and weak, 
My feeble senses bow ; 
Death's finger pales my fad'ng cheek, 
His seal is on my brow. 

My heart is as a withered leaf, 

Each fibre dead and sere ; 
And near me sits the spectre grief, 

To drain each burning tear ! 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 175 



The earth is bright with buds and bees. 
The air with purple beams — 

The winds are swimming in the trees, 
Or sporting on the streams. 

But not for me the blossom's breath 
Nor winds, nor sunny skies — 

I languish in tlie arms of death, 
And feed my soul with sighs ! 

I sigh to hope — ' come back again, 

My heart is weak for thee !' 
But woe is me ! my sighs are vain — 

She flies from misery ! 

It is not that I fear to die. 

That burns my withered breast — 

But thus to waste with agony. 
And sigh, and wish for rest. 

To count the minutes one by one. 

And long for coming light : 
And ere the lingering day is done, 

To languish for the night. 

To feel that sinking of the mind, 

That nothingness of soul ; 
Where all is dead and dark and blind. 

As drops of Lethe's bowl ! 

And yet, sunny Italy ! 

'T were sweet to find a tomb, 
Where wild flowers ever strewn by thee. 

Above my couch shall bloom ! 

Farewell my harp ! — I kiss thy strings. 
Go hang thee in the bowers; 

Where oft thy dreamy whisperings 
Have charmed the buried hours ! 

And if some finger fain would wake 

Thine unremembered lay. 
And bid thy sleeping silence break. 

Then, haply, wilt thou say : 



It6 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



• Oil ! stranger, scatter roses, 
And slips of cypress burn— 

A broken heart reposes 
Within this silent urn.' " 



There is something, we repeat, singularly sad and solemn in these 
departures. Its great ones seem the essential features of an age; 
and when they are removed, " a chill comes over us," to use the 
expressive words of an elegant author; "the ground seems taken 
from under our feet; we feel as though a change of dispensation 
were at hand — an untried and unknown future were about to open 
before us." 

Rousseau desu'ed them to open the blinds and take him to 
the window, that he might see the garden again, and the glory 
of the setting sun. Erasmus, in his last moments, was restless 
and full of tribulation, crying from time to time, "Lord make an 
end !" Bayle, author of the Philosophical Dictionary, on the con- 
trary, was collected and deliberate to the last, and engaged in 
correcting some proofs for the printer. When the latter entered 
the room for one of the sheets, Bayle gave it to him and expired. 

Scarron, on his death-bed, said to those who were weeping 
about him, among whom was the future Madame de Maintenon, the 
celebrated mistress of Louis XIV., "You cannot cry so much for 
me, rms enfans, as I have made you laugh in my time." The gay 
and gallant Chastelard, who was beheaded in Edinburgh, after 
they had ferretted him out from the apartment of Mary Queen of 
Scots, consoled himself by repeating with a good deal of courage 
and pathos, one of Rensard's lyrics, on the scaffold, as his most 
appropriate viaticum. 

Among the last words of Robert Burns — before he took his last 
eager gulph from the physic cup, and fell convulsively to the foot 
of the bed — were: "Don't let the awkward sqad fire over me !'' 
alluding to a body of Dumfries militia, of which he was a mem- 
ber, and the military pretensions of which he looked on, to the 
last, with a sense of humorous disparagement. 



DYIXG WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 17T 



When Pope sat in his chair dying, a friend called to see him, 
(just after his physician, who spake encouragingly of his illness, 
had gone out,) and asked him how he did. "I am dying, sir, 
of a hundred good symptoms," said the great wit, in a peevish 
voice. 

Grotius cried out, "01 I have consumed my days in labo- 
rious trifling !" Dr. Johnson lamented many things in his past 
career, but when the light of evangelical truth broke in upon his 
mind, he obtained Christian peace, in which he died. Baron 
Haller died expressing his renewed confidence in God's mercy, 
through Jesus Christ. 

Julian, the apostate, exclaimed, as he fell wounded, fighting 
with the Persians, " Thou hast conquered me, Galilean 1" The 
deist Hobbes said, with horror, in his last moments, " I am taking 
a fearful leap in the dark." Cardinal Mazarine, " my poor 
soul, what is to become of thee ? whither wilt thou go ?" 

The following afiford a brilliant contrast to some of the forego- 
ing instances. 

The aged Simeon, as he took the young Saviour in his arms, 
said, " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, accor- 
ding to thy word, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation." When 
the proto-martyr Stephen fell beneath the missiles of his enemies, 
he exclaimed, " Lord Jesus receive my spirit," and, getting upon 
his knees, he cried with a loud voice, " Lord, lay not this sin to 
their charge 1" and when he had said this he fell asleep. The 
Apostle Paul, just before his martydrom, exclaimed : " I have 
fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the 
faith ; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, 
which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day I" 

Ignatius, who, by the edict of the Emperor Trajan, was brought 
from Antioch to Rome to be thrown to the lions in the Amphi- 
theatre, ceased not to exhort Christians on the way, saying, " My 
Lord was crucified for me 1" " Abjure Christianity or you shall 
be thrown to the wild beasts," said the Roman Proconsul to the 



178 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



aged Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna. " Let them come on," cried 
Polycarp, " we Christians are not accustomed to change better to 
worse, but from bad to better." The venerable Hilary, Bishop 
of Poictiers, A. D. 385, in his dying moments, thus addressed his 
soul : " Soul, thou hast served Christ these seventy years, and art 
thou afraid to die ? Go out soul, go out !" 

" Come and sit near me ; let me lean on you," said Wilberforee 
to a friend a few minutes before his death. Afterward, putting 
his arms around that friend, he said : " God bless you, my dear." 
He became agitated somewhat, and then ceased speaking. Pre- 
sently, however, he said : " I must leave you, my fond friend ; we 
shall walk no further through this world together ; but I hope we 
shall meet in heaven. Let us talk of heaven. Do not weep for 

me, dear , do not weep, for I am very happy ; but think of 

me, and let the thought make you press forward. I never knew 
happiness till I found Christ a Saviour. Read the Bible — ^read 
the Bible I Let no religious book take its place. Through all my 
perplexities and distresses I never read any other book, and I 
never felt the want of any other. It has been my hourly study ; 
and all my knowledge of the doctrines, and all my acquaintance 
with the experience and realities of religion, have been derived 
from the Bible only. I think religious people do not read the 
Bible enough. Books about religion may be useful enough, but 
they will not do instead of the simple truth of the Bible." He 
afterwards spoke of the regi'et of parting with friends. "No- 
thing," said he, " convinces me more of the reality of the change 
within me, than the feelings with which I can contemplate a sepa- 
ration from my family. I now feel so weaned from earth, my 
affections so much in heaven, that I can leave you all without a 
regret ; yet I do not love you less, but God more." 

When the chain was placed on the neck of John Huss, he ex- 
claimed with a smile : " Welcome this chain, for Christ's sake 1" 
The faggots having been piled up to his neck, the Duke of Bavaria, 
in brutal manner, called on him to abjure. " No, no," cried the 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 179 



mart}T, " I take God to witness I preached none but his own 
pure doctrines, and what I taught I am ready to seal with 
my blood." Jerome, of Prague, who followed Huss to the stake 
after a few mouths, said to the executioner who was about to 
kindle the fire behind him, " Bring thy torch hither ; do tliine 
office before my face ; had I feared death I might have avoided 
it." The last words Luther was heard to utter were : " Into thy 
liands I commend my spirit. Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord 
God of truth." " Nothing but heaven," said the mild Melau thon, 
when asked by his friends if he wanted anything. And theh he 
gently fell asleep in Christ. George Wishart cried out at the 
stake, " For the sake of the true Gospel, given me by the grace 
of God, I suffer this day wdth a glad heart. Behold and consider 
my visage — ye shall not see me change color — I fear not this fire." 
The last prayer offered by Tindall, who translated the Bible, and 
suffered martyrdom in 1536, was, " O Lord, open the King of 
England's eyes." Lawrence Saunders, who suffered martyrdom 
dm*ing the reign of Queen Mary, kissed the stake to which he was 
bound, exclaiming, " Welcome the Cross of Christ ; welcome life 
everlasting !" "Be of good heart, brother," cried Ridley to Lat- 
imer, "for our God will either assauge this flame, or enable us to 
abide it." Latimer repUed, " Be of good comfort, brother ; for 
we shall this day light such a candle in England as, by God's 
grace, shall never he put out." Bergerus, a councillor of the Em- 
peror Maximilian, said, on his dying bed, " Farewell, farewell, 
all earthly things, and welcome Heaven." George Buchanan, the 
ornament of Scottish literature, who could write Latin verse with 
a purity almost worthy of the Augustan age, was taken with his 
last illness when in the country. To the message of King James, 
who summoned him to be at Court in twenty days, he sent this 
reply: "Before the days, mentioned by your Majesty, shall be ex- 
pired, I shall be in that place where few kings enter." The Marquis 
of Argyle, when advancing to the scaffold, said, " I would die as a 
Roman, but I choose rather to die as a Christian." Among the last 



180 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



words of Claude were these: " I am so oppressed that I can attend 
only to two of the great truths of religion, namely, the mercy of 
God, and the gracious aids of the Holy Ghost." 

For the last fourteen years of his life, the philosophic John 
Locke applied himself to the study of the Scriptures. " Blessed 
be God," said he on his death-bed, "for what the law has shown 
to man ; blessed be his name for justifying him through faith in 
Christ ; and thanks be to thy name, God, for having called me 
to the knowledge of the Divine Saviour." When that great philos- 
opher and divine. President Edwards, was dying, some in his cham- 
ber were lamenting his departure as a frown on the College, and a 
heavy stroke on the Church, not supposing that he attended to 
them, or even heard them ; turning his dying eyes on them, he 
said, " Trust in God, and you need not fear." These were his last 
words. Edward Payson, of Portland, went out of the world with 
the song of an angel on his lips. When laboring under very acute 
pains, he exclaimed, "These are God's arrows, but they are sharp- 
ened with love." 

The last words of Mr. Jefferson, who died just half a century 
after the passage of his immortal Declaration of Independence, 
were, " I resign my soul to God, and my daughter to my country!" 
The dying words of John Adams, the same day, were still more 
characteristic of the man. A few minutes before he died, being 
roused by the firing of a cannon, and told that his neighbors were 
rejoicing for the 4th of July, he exclaimed, " It is a great and 
glorious day," and expired with the words, " Independence for- 
ever 1" on his lips. 

The last expressions of J. Q. Adams, were, "It is the last of 
earth ;" and those of our revered Washington — more significant 
and hopeful — "It is well." What a moral grandeur gathers 
around the death-scene of the great and good of earth, when 
sanctified by a religious faith ; and how fearful the contrast when 
the departing spirit leaves the world all unprepared, unannealed, 
unblessed, with all the terrible premonitions of a coming judgment. 



DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. 



181 



Says a recent writer : — " Life's last hours are grand testing hours. 
Death tries all our principles, and lays bare all our foundation. 
A^ast numbers have been found to act the hypocrite in life, who 
were forced to be honest in the hour of death. What atheists 
have owned their principles, what wordlings have bewailed their 
folly when death approached ! Misgivings of the heart that have 
been kept secret through life, have come out in death ; and many 
who seemed all right and fair for heaven, have had to declare 
that they had only been self-deceived. It has been said, " man 
may not dissemble in death," hence the value of dying testimonies. 
We gather the last words, the last acts, the last experiences ; and 
we treasure them up as indubitable evidences in favor or against 
the character of those that wore their value as tests of character, 
and all have felt then: force." 





THE POETRY OF PLANTS 



" Speak no harsh words of earth : she is our mother, 
And few of us, her sons, who have not added 
A wrinkle to her brow. She gave us birth ; 
We drew our nurture from her ample breast ; 
And there is coming for us both an hour 
When we shall pray that she will ope her arms 
And take us back again." — Alexandkr S.mith. 

"The least of God's works it is refreshing to look at — a dried leaf, or a straw, 
makes me feel myself in good company." — Henry Marttn. 



" Beauty," says an eloquent writer, "is God's handwriting — a 
way-side sacrament : welcome it in every fair face, every fair -field 
and flower, every fair sky, and give thanks to Him — the fountain 
of all loveliness — for it, — drink it in simply and earnestly with all 
your eyes ; it is a charmed draught — a cup of blessing. Never 
lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful ; for there is many 
an avenue to our heart, besides our ears and brains ; — many a 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 183 



sight and sound and scent, of which wc have never even thought, 
that helps to shape our characters. Do not trees talk — have they 
not leafy lungs — do they not, at sunrise, when the wind is low, and 
the birds are carroling their songs, play sweet music ? Who has 
ever heard the soft whisper of the green leaves in Spring time, on 
a sunny morning, that did not feel as though rainbow gleams of 
gladness were running through his heart ? And then when the 
morning-glory, like a nun before the shrine of God, discloses her 
beautiful face, — and the moss-roses open their crimson lips, spark- 
ling with the nectar that falls from heaven, who does not bless his 
Maker ? And when Autumn comes, the season of " the sere and 
yellow leaf," — when the wheat is in its golden prime, and the corn 
waves like silken tassels in the charmed air, is not minded of the 
reaper — Death ?" Well may Akenside exclaim, — 

" With what attractive charms this goodly frame 
Of nature touches the consenting hearts 
Of mortal man. For him the Spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand 
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk. 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure unreproved." 

To a mind thus attuned, the beauties, harmonies and sublimities 
of nature make their appeal, with an eloquence all-persuasive, and 
a power irresistibly fascinating. It is amid such sabbath scenes 
of peace that the heart becomes ennobled with thoughts of the 
pure and beautiful, — it is here that the gentler virtues cluster, and 
the sister graces diffuse around their benign and blessed influence. 



184 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



The fair face of nature, so redolent of varied beauty, becomes a 
sacred contemplation, linked with fragrant memories of "the loved 
and lost," — the joyous and bright, though brief hours of child- 
hood, the endearing ties of kindred, the maturer sweets of friend- 
ship and love, and the dark days of sadness and desolation. The 
happy, Eden home of our first parents was a glorious garden of 
embowered beauty; and even the Divine Redeemer made the leafy 
solitudes of Gethsemane, and the OUve groves of the Mount, sacred 
by His presence, as the chosen scene of His sufferings, and celes- 
tial communings. 

How many and forcible are the teachings wooing us back to 
God, whispered to us by the soft, breathing zephyr, amid the sigh- 
ing of the foliage, or in the gentle murmur of the rippling stream? 
And how sweetly is the soul subdued to serenity and bliss, from its 
sad unrest of worldly solicitude, by these hallowed influences : 
while the tumult of passion, and the corrosions of care become 
hushed and soothed : — 

" The world is too much with us ; — late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
And the mute expression of sweet nature's voices, 
Are drowned amid the turmoil of life's noises ; 
Where thoughts of fear and darkness come unbidden. 
And love and hope are into silence chidden." 

The poets have sought to portray the beauties of Flora, let it 
be ours, to attempt a survey of the bolder magnificence of the 
forest. What can be more sublime and spu'it-stirring than to 
" thread the mazy grove," to wander beneath the thick overhang- 
ing foliage, penetrating into its embowered recesses ? The imposing 
grandeur of the scene impresses us with a religious awe, and we 
bow lowly and reverently before these visible tokens of the Creator's 
benificence and power, as seen in then* myriad forms of variegated 
richness and vernal beauty. From the creeping ivy, that clings 
with fond tenacity to the crumbling ruin, as if to rescue it from 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 185 



the destroying touch of time, to the stately " kings of the forest," 
reared in their colossal strength and leafy grandeur, what a world 
of wonders is encircled, inviting our astonished and admiring gaze. 
With what injfinite variety of surpassing beauty is the broad realm 
of nature decked — what an endless succession of delicate forms, 
do we discover in the spiral grass, the genera of plants, and the 
ever-varying foliage of trees, — all of which evince some peculiar 
characteristics of habit or structure to arrest attention. It is this 
very exuberance of nature's charms, however, that prevents our 
just appreciation of their excellence, for who is accustomed to 
render her duteous homage ? While the weary wanderer over the 
arid sands of the East pines in vain for the leafy shelter of the 
spreading cedar, the yew, or the oak, we enjoy their full immuni- 
ties. The weeping elm, with its rich pendulous branches, the sturdy 
oak, the roseate foliage of the maple, " clad in scarlet and gold," 
the hoary poplar, the " silver abele," the " tulip-tree," with its 
brilliant, glossy leaves, and blossoms, " giving their odor to the 
stars, and despising the minor denizens of the forest," with many 
others, with whose generous shade, graceful outline, and exceeding 
beauty, all are familiar. If for no other purpose we should cherish 
and cultivate these atti'active objects as majestic forms of beauty, 
which none can contemplate without having the finer sensibilities 
of their nature brought into exercise. Ti'ees, therefore, may well 
be regarded with grateful love, if not with a feeling of veneration; 
not only did they form the luxm'ious arbors of repose in Eden, they 
constituted also the arched and leafy temple of the first worship- 
pers ; and it was, moreover, beneath the shadows of their thick 
embowered recesses, that the tragedy of the first transgression was 
enacted. 

Trees have been objects of regard and veneration in all ages : 
frequent mention of them is made in both sacred and profane his- 
tory. Pilgrimages were made to the oaks of Mamre, near Hebron, 
from the time of Abraham to that of Constantine ; forests and 
groves were consecrated in early periods of time as sites of religious 



186 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



worship, both by the Jews as well as the surroundmg heathen 
nations. The oratories of the Jews were beneath the shadow of 
olive trees : groves also formed the primitive temples and shrines 
of the heathen deities. Many trees of the east were distin- 
guished as especial objects of regard by the orientals : the valley 
of Hiunom was esteemed so venerable that it was even personified 
as a god ; and in such esteem did they hold the cedars of Lebanon 
that one of the most dreaded threats of Sennacherib was, that he 
would level them with the ground. The principal trees of Pales- 
tine are thus grouped together, and made use of as the expressive 
symbols of poetry, by the author of Ecclesiasticus : " I was exalted 
like a cedar in Libanus, and as a Cyprus tree upon the mountains 
of Hermon ; I was exalted like a palm tree in Engaddi, and as a 
rose plant in Jericho, as a fair olive tree in a pleasant field, and 
grew up as a plane tree by the water. As the turpentine tree I 
stretched out my branches, and my branches are the branches of 
honor and grace : as the vine brought I forth pleasant savor, and 
my flowers are the fruit of honor and riches." The Syrians per- 
sonified their god Rimmon under the figure of a pomegranate ; the 
Babylonians also are believed to have regarded it as a sacred 
emblem. In the Romish church palms are still held sacred, and it 
will be recollected branches of the palm tree were strewd in the 
way when the Saviour made his triumphal entry into Jerusalem. 
Tacitus, in describing the ceremony of consecrating the capitol, 
after it had been repaired by Vespasian, states that the first part 
of the ceremony consisted in the soldiers entering with boughs of 
these trees, in which the gods were supposed to take the greatest 
delight, and that then the vestal virgins sprinkled the floor with 
water. 

The ancient Druids of Gaul, Britain and Germany were accus- 
tomed to perform their mystic rites and sacrifices in the recesses 
of the forest ; and our pilgrim fathers did rightful homage to the 
God of the universe and of liberty, under a like canopy. 

Trees have been made the fertile theme of poets, mythologists 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 187 



and moralists, from the earliest tiroes down to our own ; and 
beautiful are the fancies and fictions with which they have been 
adorned by them. Let us glance for a moment at the uses of 
trees : for example, there is the papyrus of Egypt, the inner skin 
or sliced pith of which, joined and polished, was used for writing- 
paper by the ancients, whose ingenuity in its preparation was fur- 
ther displayed in the great length of its rolls. Belzoni describes a 
sheet he saw, measuring twenty-three feet long by one and a half 
broad. Some eighteen hundred manuscripts dug from the lava of 
Herculanajum are of papyrus. Of fruit trees, with which all are 
familiar, it is needless to speak ; we may, however, refer to the 
date tree, which affords to many tribes of Upper Egypt, and to 
multitudes in other countries, almost tlieir only provision. It is a 
remarkable instance of the design of Providence to render most 
parts of the earth habitable, that the date-palm abounds every- 
where on the verge of the vast African desert, where no grain, and 
scarcely any other tree can grow. Linnaeus asserts that the region 
of palms was the first country of our race, and that man is essen- 
tially palmivor&us. Buckhardt informs us that date trees often 
constitute the dowry of an eastern bride. The bread-fruit tree 
supplies the natives of the Polynesian isles their principal article 
of diet : its fruit is as large as a melon, the eatable part white as 
snow, and when roasted has a sweet taste. The cocoa-nut tree 
supplies, as we all know, a pleasant kind of food with a milky 
fluid ; the plantain called banana is in the torrid zone what wheat 
and rice are to other regions; one plant produces seventy or 
eighty pounds of fruit, and Humboldt computes the produce of 
bananas to that of wheat as one hundred and thirty-three to one. 
The maple and the beet root alike supply a saccharine matter, 
which is used very generally ; and the birch tree yields, by incision, 
a copious supply of juice, which is made the basis of a light and 
agreeable wine. The beautiful Spanish chestnut tree also bears a 
fruit upon which the Genoese are said largely to subsist ; and we 
are all acquainted with the article, for wlicn roasted it divides the 



188 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



choice with the hazel, the hickory, waluut, the brazil, and other 
nuts. Not every buyer, or even seller of sago, knows it to be the 
heart of a tree, nor that it is used in Asia for bread. When 
mature, which is about thirty years' growth, the branches show a 
yellowish meal ; the tree is then felled, and on splitting it the sago 
appears, resembling the pith of elder. The eatable sago is the 
meal parted from the filaments. It is stated by M'CuUoch that 
this sago palm when young is covered with prickles to protect it 
from predatory animals. Then there is the vegetable dairy — the 
shea tree of Africa, which yields a rich butter from its boiled 
kernels, and which will keep a whole year without salt. Other 
milk trees are said to have been discovered in Ceylon and Deme- 
rara. The coffee plant, or tree, for it sometimes attains to eigh- 
teen feet in height, yields the well-known berry from which we 
derive the delicious beverage used at breakfast : its countepart, 
the tea plant, also possesses a world-wide fame, and forms the decoc- 
tion so refreshing to the weary, and is such an indispensable 
accompaniment with the loquacious Johnsons and Piozzis of all 
countries. 

If you will pardon the digression from dietetics to the doctors, 
we would suggest sundry nauseous nostrums, which, although 
unpalatable, are yet of essential utility in patching up our perish- 
ing humanity. For instance, there is Peruvian bark, of which 
some twp dozen varieties are described by botanists. It grows 
upon a mountain tree, on an elevation usually of five thousand feet 
above the level of the sea ; its trunk, owing to the frequent scaling 
of the bark, is said to be seldom seen thicker than the arm, 
although it attains a great height. A resinous onedicine is 
extracted from the copaiva tree of the West India Isles, and the 
manna tree of Sicily — a species of ash — yields a medicinal sub- 
stance, not unknown to childhood, and yet not very eagerly sought 
for its flavor. Camphor is distilled from the roots of a tree of that 
name, growing in Borneo and Sumatra ; logwood, and the bark 
of mahogony, are also of some use in medicine : but possibly the 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 189 



reader has no especial fancy for physic, and we will quit this 
branch of the subject. 

Trees and plants are also made serviceable, as in the case of our 
first parents, for clothing : for example, cotton, so extensively 
cultivated by our southern neighbors. There are some trees, 
indigenous to Asia and the West Indies, which produce cotton: 
nankeen is also a fabric produced from a cotton tree, native 
to China. Cloth is said to be fabricated from the fibres of the 
bark of a mulberry tree, by the South Sea Islanders, which pre- 
sents, after bleaching, a silky texture and very respectable appear- 
ance : and it will be remembered, the denizens of more refined 
communities are indebted to another species of this tree for some 
of then: silken fabrics ; while we derive the bark used for tanning 
leather from the oak, the mimosa and other trees, — so that it will 
be seen we stand indebted, not only for many internal comforts, 
but some external advantages also, to the scions of the forest ; and 
even when trees have served for utility, and graceful decoration to 
the cottage or the landscape, we cut them down for fuel, or con- 
vert them to a thousand other important uses in the construction 
of ships, houses, and the numerous arts of life. 

It will further be recollected that it is to the buried forest of a 
former and remote age, that we are indebted for the valuable 
resources of the coal mine. Says Dr. Buckland, "we are all 
brought into immediate connexion with the vegetation that clothed 
the ancient earth, before one half of its actual surface had yet 
been formed. The trees of the primeval forests have not, like 
modern trees, undergone decay, yielding back their elements to 
soil and the atmosphere by which they had been nourished; but 
treasured up in subterranean store-houses, have been transformed 
into enduring beds of coal, which in these latter ages have become 
to man the sources of heat and light and wealth. We prepare 
our food, and maintain our forges and furnaces, and the power of 
our steam-engines, with the remains of plants of ancient forms 
and extinct species, which were swept from the earth ere the for- 



190 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



mation of the transition strata was completed. Our instruments 
of cutlery, the tools of our mechanics and the countless machines 
which we construct by the infinitely varied applications of iron, 
are derived from ore, for the most part coeval with, or more 
ancient than the fuel, by the aid of which we reduce it to its 
metalic state, and apply it to innumerable uses in the economy of 
human life. Thus from wrecks of forests that waved upon the 
surface of the primeval lands, and from fenugious mud that was 
lodged at the bottom of primeval waters, we derive our chief 
supplies of coal and iron — these two fundamental elements of art 
and industry which contribute more than any other mineral pro- 
duction of earth to increase the riches, and multiply the comforts, 
and ameliorate the condition of mankind." 

We might refer also to the several oils and gases which are 
exuded from living trees, as well as the various kinds of tunber 
they produce ; but our limits forbid. There are, however, other 
substances important to the arts of life, of which, without trees, 
we should be destitute: one of the most remarkable is the bark 
of the cork-tree, — the barking of which takes place every ten 
years, while its age often extends to two hundred years. The 
olive-tree, again, furnishes a luxury both of the table and the 
toilette, as well as another material for artificial light. Shepherd, 
in his work on trees, to which we have already been indebted for 
many interesting facts, speaks of an ancient and entirely hollow 
specimen of this tree (which rivals the oak in longevity) that has 
produced no less than 240 quarts of oil a year. The India-rubber 
tree affords a product capable of such various and still multiply- 
ing use, that to be cut off from this article of commerce would 
now be a serious loss to the accommodations of civilized life: the 
caoutchouc tree, it seems must yield up some of its honors to one 
of more recent discovery — the gutta-percha of Singapore and 
Borneo. Another latent benefit derived from trees, deserves 
notice: we refer to the purificative influence of their foliage upon 
the atmosphere, — for it is the leaves of plants and trees that act 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 191 



npon the air like human kings, by absorbing carbon and evolving 
vital air for animal respiration. Air, it is known, passes from the 
human lungs charged with a large quantity of carbonic gas, but 
the wisdom of Omnipotence, by fitting this deleterious gas to the 
wants of the vegetable kingdom, has converted it into a most use- 
ful adjunct in the economy of creation, for it is returned into the 
atmosphere in the form of oxygen, or vital air. Thus, unsuspected 
and unheeded by us, the innumerable leaves of our forests and 
arbor trees form a vast summer laboratory of vital air, which con- 
tributes, to an incalculable extent, to the support and health of 
animal existence. Some remarkable instances might be cited of 
the extreme longevity of trees, which would doubtless prove no 
less interesting. The age of most trees may be computed by the 
number of concentric rings in the trunk — each zone denoting a 
year : estimated by this process, which can be done on a standing 
tree by extracting a cylinder with the trephine saw, the antiquity 
of some is, it has been conjectured, coeval with that of the Mosaic 
Cosmogany. Three kinds of trees afford wonderful instances of 
this apparently antediluvian date ; the gum dragon-tree, of which 
there are specimens in Kew Gardens, — the ape's bread-tree of 
the tropic, whose trunk measures sometimes from eighty to ninety 
feet in circumference, — and a species of Cypress, a specimen of 
which is said to be existing in a church-yard near Oaxaqi, Mexico, 
the trunk of which is ninety-three feet round, and another at Cha- 
pultejwc one hundred and seventeen feet ten inches in girt. This 
latter was observed as a tree of wondrous magnitude by the Span- 
ish conquerers, and is affirmed by M. de Candalle, "to go back 
certainly to the origin of the present state of the world, an epoch" 
he says, " of which it is the most indisputable monument." There 
is said to be a singular yew tree in Perthshire, called the Fortingal, 
the trunk of which is a mere shell and forms an arch through 
which Highland funerals pass: it is supposed to have existed 
from the commencement of the Christian era, and may yet survive 
for centuries to come. Of the cedars of Lebanon, which Lamar- 



192 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



tine visited iu 1832, he thus writes: " they are the most renowned 
of natural monuments; the Arabs highly venerate them, and say 
that they understand the changes of the seasons, spreading or 
contracting their boughs as the snow is about to fall or to melt, — 
they could not otherwise sustain the immense weight of snow which 
would collect upon then- massy foliage." Southey thus refeK to 
this fact in his " Thalaba;" — 

" Their broad, round spreading branches, when they felt 
The snow, rose upward in a point to heaven." 

The most wonderful tree on record is the chestnut upon Mount 
^tna, although, according to recent accounts, it has lost much of 
its original dignity. It is described by travelers as having the 
appearance of five distinct trees, covering an area of two hundred 
and four feet in diameter: from close examination there are believed 
to be the evidences of these trunks having originally sprung from 
one source; and the opinion is fortified by the indications in an 
ancient map of Sicily, fully corroborating its dimensions. 

The vast antiquity of these stately trees is unquestioned; and 
they are regarded with a feeling of religious veneration. 

Of oaks many marvelous things are recorded, both as to their 
extreme longevity and gigantic proportions; the like is mentioned 
by various writers touching the pine, the myrtle of Van Dieman's 
land, the yew, the banyan, elm, etc., but we must not pause 
to refer to them. Among the various pxirposes to which celebra- 
ted and colossal trees have been devoted in former times, may be 
named, the oak in Oxfordshire, the huge trunk of which, Evelyn 
says, was converted into a prison for felons; Queen Elizabeth's 
oak at Huntingdon, still extant, at which a great hall was erected, 
and where some exploits in archery were performed by her, and 
scenes of gallantry were enacted; and that of Boscobel, which 
formed the place of shelter for the fugitive monarch, Charles II. ; 
not to allude to others which boast like distinctions. 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 193 



Many of the poets of past times have Hnked their fame with 
their favorite trees: in Windsor Forest is an oak bearing the 
inscription — " Ilere Pope sung," — and the name of Gray is con- 
nected with the Burnham beeches, and Johnson, it will be recol- 
lected had his favorite willow. 

Having made a cursory survey of some of the leafy giants of 
the forests, let us glance at one or two specimens of mammoth 
plants, — such for example as the colossal water-lily of British 
Guiana, the leaves of which measure eighteen feet, and its flower 
from four to five feet in circumference. This vegetable wonder 
bears a magnificent flower consisting of many hundred petals of 
various tints — from the pure white to the rose and pmk. The 
jungles of Sumatra boast of a plant of more gigantic dimen- 
sions, it is called the Rafflesia Arnoldi, after its discoverer Sir 
Stamford Rafiles. This is, perhaps, the greatest prodigy of the 
vegetable kidgdom; it measured a yard across, the petals being 
twelve inches high, and a foot apart from each other: the necta- 
rium would hold twelve pints, and the weight of the flower was 
estimated at fifteen pounds. Many of the tropical plants of 
America exhibit similar proportions ; the magnolia graudiflora 
rises ninety feet in height, with a diameter of three feet, while the 
leaves are from eight to nine feet in length; its beautiful white 
blossoms are of like dimensions: it is doubtless one of the most 
superb of vegetable productions of which we have any knowledge. 
The Agave Armricanor-ov, as it is sometimes called, century plant, 
from its having erroneously been supposed to blossom only once 
in a hundred years, — is a majestic specimen, has a stem rising 
sometimes forty or fifty feet high, bearing hundreds of greenish- 
white blossoms on an elegant branched spike. The taliput palm 
of Ceylon, presents another instance of the marvelous, rising two 
hundred feet in height, the leaves of which measure eleven feet in 
length by sixteen in breadth. From the vast and stupendous we 
now descend to the extremely minute and delicate; and here we 
meet with wonders even yet more astounding, as, by the aid of the 

9 



194 SALAD FOK THE SOLITARY. 



lenses of the microscope, we discover specs of vegetation iufiui- 
tesimally small, but in v^^liose delicate structure traces are yet no 
less to be detected of the infinite skill of the Creator. One of 
the most extraordinary of microscopic plants is the achlya proli- 
fera, whose soft, silky threads may sometimes be seen adhering to 
the surface of gold fishes: it has the appearance of a whitish 
slime, but is a true vegetable growth. The green slimy matter 
often observable on the surface of stagnant waters is of the same 
order; and when submitted to a powerful microscope is found to 
consist of transparent threads exquisitely minute, packed closely 
together as the pile of velvet: each thread is terminated by a ball 
which is estimated at one twelve hundredths of an inch in diam- 
eter, which contains a fluid filled with granules. Another of these 
curious vegetable parasites is the mucor mucedo, which abounds in 
bruised fruit and other substances containing fecula or sugar: it 
belongs to that class of fungi, commonly called moulds seen on 
stale bread. These insect-plants possess wonderful fecundity and 
the speed of their generative process is equally astonishing. Nor 
are such microscopic instances of vegetable life to be found merely 
among parasitic fungi, there are others equally minute, and still 
more marvelous in the aggregate, which are of independent 
growth, which twhie and interlace their tiny branches into a net- 
work as tough as the strongest felt, and extending over many 
yards of surface. These are the fresh-water confervco, of which 
the substance called " water-flannel," may be taken as a well-known 
example. A specimen is thus described by a correspondent of the 
Gardener's Chronicle for 1843 : — 

" A friend put into my hand the other day a yard or two of 
what seemed a coarse kind of flannel, gray on one side, and green- 
ish on the other, and a full quarter of an inch in thickness. It had 
been thrown up by the river Trent, and washed ashore in vast 
sheets. Those who had seen it pronounced it a manufactured 
article : and so it was, but by the hand of nature. When this 
substance is handled, it is hai:sh to the touch, although composed 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 195 



of the finest threads. To the naked eye, it presents no character 
by which it may be known from any coarse and loosely-woven 
cloth. The microscope reveals its nature. It is then found to 
consist of myriads of jointed threads, whose joints are composed 
alternately sideways and vertically ; they are here and there trans- 
parent, but for the most part opaque and rough to the eye. The 
white side is more opaque than the other, and more unexaminable ; 
but if a little muriatic acid be added to the water in which the 
fragments of water-flannel float, copious bubbles of air appear* 
These are bubbles of carbonic acid, extricated by the action of the 
muriatic acid on a coating of carbonate of lime, with which the 
plant is more or less completely invested. If, after this operation, 
the threads are again examined, the contents of the joints become 
visible : in the green parts of the flannel, they were filled with an 
irregular mass of green matter ; in the white part with myriads of 
globules, intermixed with a shapeless substance. The globules are 
the seeds. If a little iodine be then given to the flannel, it is 
readily absorbed ; and the contents, shapeless matter, globules, 
and all, become deep violet, showing that all this substance is 
starch. Hence it appears that the water-flannel is a microscopic 
plant, composed of jointed threads, secreting carbonate of lime on 
their surface, and forming seeds composed of starch within them. 
And when we consider that the joints are smaller than the eye can 
detect, while each contains from fifty to one hundred seeds, it may 
easily be conceived with what rapidity such a plant is multiplied. 
Besides which, as their contents consist to a great extent of starch, 
the most readily organisable of vegetable materials, the means of 
growth with which the plant is provided are far more ample than 
anything we know of in the higher orders of the vegetable 
kingdom." 

This vegetable swarms on stagnant pools, where it lives on 
decomposed particles, and thus, while it tends to purify the waters, 
itself becomes food for myriads of animalcules. Much more curi- 
ous information remains to be mentioned respecting mosses, lichens 



196 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



and other forms of flowerless vegetation, — even yeast might be 
adduced as another instance, for it is supposed by botanists to 
belong to this genera of the vegetable world, vfhich, according to 
Humboldt, comprises forty-four thousand species. The main object 
of a plant dm'ing growth seems to be the reproduction of its kind: 
whether the term of its being be limited to a day, a year, or cen- 
turies, its sole effort, as it proceeds from leaf to stem, from stem 
to branch, and from branch to flower and fruit, is the multiplica- 
tion of itself. This is variously effected : by seeds, by spores or 
embryo plants, by tubers, by runners which put forth shoots as 
they elongate, by branches which send down roots, either by slips 
or detached branches or single leaves. The most familiar process 
of reproduction — common to all flowering plants — is the first 
named. Seeds are merely leaves preserved in peculiar cerements 
against the return of the season of growth : they are also furnished 
with a sufficiency of nutriment for the embryo plant, till its roots 
shall have struck into the soil, and it expands mto the atmosphere. 
Their coverings also evince the ingenious contrivance of nature, for 
these provide against the several contingencies to which they may 
be subjected : for example, the cocoa has a tough fibrous coir and 
woody nut, impervious alike to drought and rain — the chestnut, a 
compact leathery envelope — the peach, a hard, strong drape — the 
apple, a fleshy pome, enclosing leathery cells — the pea and bean, 
a pod of parchment. This accounts, to a great degree, for the 
modern marvel, that even the seeds taken from the hand of an 
Egyptian mummy, more than three thousand years old, should 
have yet retained their vitality, and thus produced a crop of wheat. 
The various metamorphoses which occur to plants and flowers, 
present an interesting topic of research, — embracing the vast 
changes and improvements which cultivation of soil, transplanting, 
and the important effects of chemistry, as applied to agriculture, 
have produced. The principal phenomena of vegetable life, or 
irritabihty, are those caused by atmospheric influences, those 
depending upon the touch of other bodies, and those which appear 



THE POETRY OF PLANTS. 197 



to be perfectly spontaneous. The former, especially, include all 
such plautfi or flowers as close their leaves during night, when 
they are said to sleep, as well as those that open or shut their 
petals to the sun ; or exhibit sensitiveness to •touch, as in the 
instance of Venus' fly-trap, a native of Canada, which, not unlike 
other natives of that soil, discovers singular irritability of temper- 
ament. A poetical fancy has even invested vegetable life with the 
attributes of sensation and enjoyment ; but the hypothesis is 
unsustained by science, notwithstanding polypi and sponges seem 
to approach very close to a demonstration of the theory. There 
may be a seeming analogy between the brain and nerves of ani- 
mals, and the vessels of plants, but there is nothing like indentity 
between the respective functions of the two great kingdoms. Not- 
withstanding all the light which modern science has shed upon 
organic life, the learned are yet undecided as to the precise boun- 
dary line which divides these two departments of animated nature 
between the lowly forms of corallines, sponges, and polypi, and the 
more dormant specimens of the animal kingdom. Here, however, 
we close our brief sketch of the more remarkable and anoma- 
lous features of vegetable Ufe, conscious that a subject of such 
surpassing interest, has failed of its full development : yet believ- 
ing that, as a topic of recreative study, it may with confidence be 
commended to a more extended investigation on the part of the 
reader, for its resources are as exhaustless as they are rife with 
delightful interest. 

" Not a plant, a leaf, a flower, but contains 
A folio volume, we may read, and read, 
And read again, and still find something new — 
Something to please, something to instruct. 
Even in the noisome weed." 







INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 



"A spot near Cripplegate extends— 

Grub street, — 'tis called the modern Pindus ; 
Where (not that bards are never friends) 

Bards might shake hands from adverse windows." — Hudibras 



The subject we propose to contemplate in the present chapter, 
presents the various fallacies and foibles of the literary profession. 
Without attempting a psychological analysis of literary life, we 
propose simply to group together a few of the more striking 
idiosyncracies which seem to be indigenous to great minds. If 
frailty and fame are twin attributes, one might be tempted to 
conclude that nature designed such an allotment as an equipoise, 
to silence the envy of those from whom she has withheld her 
noblest endowments in the one case, and to serve as a counter- 
acting check to the inordinate self-esteem, which their possession 
might otherwise superinduce in the other. 

Possession of the creative faculty, says Leigh Hunt, pre-sup- 
poses a superiority to adverse circumstances, and "low thoughted 



INFELICITIKS OK THE 1 X T ELL li CTU A I- . 199 



care ;" and Goldsmith, sitting- in his garret with a worsted stock- 
ing on his head : — 

" Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger, that can pay, '^ 

in spite of bailifts, writs, debts, duns, and milk scores, the most 
liorrilile that even Hogarth imagined, was still a happy fellow, 
satisfied that he would pay if he could, which is all that is neces- 
sary to cstalilish the morale of his character upon high ground, he 
leaves the aliairs of the world to right themselves, and enjoys the 
everlasting day rule of his imagination. So it was with Fielding, 
Goldsmith, Steele, and others, honoral)le in literature, and so also 
with Handel, Mozart, and Weber, in music ; and it is one of the 
kindly recompenses of nature, by which she contrives, on the 
whole, to adjust so equitably the good and the evil of this life, 
that when injury to the individual arises from an excess of sym- 
pathy with the mass, that injuiy is commonly but lightly felt. It 
is aftecting to think that during the composition of his great mas- 
ter-pieces, Mozart's family at times wanted the common necessaries 
of life. Such adversity must have been a sharp thorn in the side 
of so gentle and sensitive a nature as his. Handel's immortal 
oratorios were produced under similar circumstances, after the 
attack of a threatening and fatal disorder, that resulted in his 
total blindness. 

It is supposed, and with great redson, that but for these precise 
circumstances, men of genius, naturally indolent, would not have 
achieved so much, or so well ; under more favorable auspices their 
energies would have remained dormant, for lack of stimulus. Burns 
was an instance of an author writing for love, and not for money, 
for he got little pecuniary reward for his exquisite effusions, and 
was ever in pecuniary embarrassments. Beaumont asserts that a 
man of genius could no more help putting his thoughts on paper, 
than a traveler in a burning desert could help drinking when he 
sees water. To quote his words : — 



200 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" No more can he whose mind 
Joys in the muses, hold from that delight, 
When nature and his full thoughts bid him write." 

Before entertaining the reader with our citation of the eccen- 
tricities and trials of the author, it will not be inopportune to 
remind him of the curious mode in which the public requite his 
literary labors : the usual awards of a man of genius being a 
marble monument to his memory, while in life denying him suste- 
nance ; making " then' luminous leaves," to adopt the phrase of a 
modern journalist, "to flourish like the yew tree, because planted 
over a grave." We shall not pause to inquire into the causes 
which have provoked such injustice towards a class so signally 
meriting a course of treatment diametrically the reverse of this, 
or why succeeding posterity have perpetuated the like crusade 
against the craft of authorship ; it is enough for regret to find it 
so. Our forefathers, however, must have had their patience pretty 
severely taxed, by the prolixity of some of the early scribes. What 
should we thiuk of twenty-one huge folios ? — yet we find, in 1651, 
a writer of such interminable dimensions ; while another, Peter 
D'Alva, even extended his learned lucubrations to no less than 
forty-eight, in an abortive attempt to expound a mystery unfath- 
omable, and which his labyrinth of words but rendered the more 
mysterious. While, not to name Confucius or the reputed six 
hundred volumes by the French bishop, Du Bellay, we might 
remind the reader of the astounding intimation given by St. 
Jerome, to the effect that he had perused six thousand books writ- 
ten by Origen, who "daily wearied seven notaries, and as many 
boys, in writing after him !" It ought not to have amazed his 
friends, therefore, to have learned of the sickness of that multifa- 
rious writer. Sir John Hill, (the author of the "Vegetable Sys- 
tem,") when he confessed it was in consequence of over working 
himself on seven productions at once ! We read of Hans Sacks, a 
Nm'cmburg shoemaker, who lived about the close of the fifteenth 
century, and who seems to have apportioned his labors equally 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 201 



between boots and books, the praiseworthy arts of making poetry 
and pumps, soauets and shoes, to the 7*Ith year of his age ; when 
he took an inventory of his poetical stock in trade, and found, 
according to his own calculation, that his works filled thirty folio 
volumes, all written with his own hand. They comprised 4200 
songs ; 208 comedies, tragedies and farces ; 1700 fables, miscel- 
laneous poems and tales, and 73 military and love songs— forming 
a grand total of six thousand and forty-eight pieces, small and 
great ; out of which he culled as many as filled three great folios, 
which were published in the year 1558-61. How strangely the 
early scribes seem to have coveted the ambition of being volu- 
minous writers, not remembering that Persms became immortal 
from the transmission of but two sheds of paper inscribed by 
/lis pen. 

It would be easy to multiply instances of the kind in the several 
departments of authorship, especially in those once prolific themes. 
Alchemy, Astrology, and other wonderfully occult matters, and 
even in Theology — the latter, we remember to have read some- 
where, boasting of an early commentator, whose elaborate exposi- 
tion of St. Matthew, even an abridged, edition of which, in small 
type, occupied no less than a thousand folio pages. But we have 
cited enough ; we shall therefore glance at some other eccentrici- 
ties of the learned for the edification of the reader. The bards 
have had their loves, as Mrs. Jameson's very pleasant work on that 
subject sufficiently attests ; and we shall not attempt to add to 
what has been already so admirably exhibited of this feature of 
the literary character, save simply the mention of a name she has 
omitted to notice — we refer to that of CoUetet, who is reported to 
have shared the honors of matrimonial alliance with three of his 
domestics in succession, to each of whom he paid the tribute of his 
muse in heroic verse. D'lsraeli has collected from the dust of 
departed days, among other curious matters, many amusing par- 
ticulars respecting the subjects authors have chosen to dilate upon ; 
shall we glance at a few ? In classic times we have Apuleius and 

9* 



202 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



Agrippa, succeeded by many moderns, who, to evince their irony 
and wit, selected that fabled emblem of wisdom — the ass. 

In Butler's Remains, it is remarked, that " there is a kind of 
physiognomy in the titles of books, no less than in the faces of 
men, by which a skillful observer will as well know what to expect 
from the one as the other." 

Generally speaking, this is correct. But the optician who 
should happen to purchase a book entitled, A New Invention, or a 
Paire of Cristall Spectacles, by hel/pe whereof may he read so small a 
print, that what tiventy sheets of paper will hardly contain shall le 
discovered in one, (1644) would find, to his surprise, that it has 
nothing to do with his business, but relates to the civil war. So 
also might mistakes very readily occur with regard to Home 
Tooke's celebrated Diversions of Purley, which a village book-club 
actually ordered at the time of its pubUcation, under the impres- 
sion that it was a book of amusing games. 

In Chambers' Journal is a curious paper on the subject of book 
titles, from which we quote the following paragraph : 

" Some titles are agreeably short, and others wonderfully long. 
A few years since, a work was issued with the laconic title of It ; 
and for days previous to its publication, the walls of London were 
placarded with the words, "Order It," "Bnj It," "Read It." 
The old naturalist Lovell published a book at Oxford, in 1661, 
entitled Panzoologicomineralogia, which is nearly as long a word as 
Rabelais' proposed title for a book, namely, Antipericatametapar- 
hengedamphicribrationes ! .'" 

According to Stowe's Chronicle, the title of Domesday Book 
arose from the circumstance of the original having been carefully 
preserved in a sacred place at Westminster cloisters, called Domus 
Dei, or House of God. 

The Latin poetasters seem to have their merits called somewhat 
in question by the title of John Peter's curious and very scarce 
work, A New Way to make Latin Verses, whereby any one of ordi- 
nary capacity that only knows the A, B, C, and can count nine, 



INFELICITIES 01' THE INTELLECTUAL. 203 



thmigh he understands not am tL^ord of Latin, or what a verse means, 
may be plainly taught to make thou'Sands of Hexameter and Pentameter 
Verses, which shall be true Latin, true Verse, and Good Se'iise,{ 1619). 
In 1559 appeared a book, entitled The Key to UnJinown Know- 
ledge, or a Shop of Five Windows, 

" Which if j'ou Jo open, 
To cheapen and copen, 
You will be unwilling. 
For many a shilling. 
To part with the profit 
Which you shall have of it." 

The mottoes on title pages are often very curious. The follow- 
ing is from a book called Gentlemen, look about you : 

" Read this over if you're wise, 
If you're not, then read it twise : 
If a fool, and in the gall 
Of bitterness, read not at all." 

Another, from Whitney's Emblems, (1586) : — 

" Peruse with heede, then friendly judge, and balming rash refraine; 
So maist thou reade unto thy good, and shalte requite my paine." 

One Joshua Barnes wrote a poem with the design of proving 
the authorship of the Iliad traceable to King Solomon; and 
another French critic, Daurat, who lived in the sixteenth century, 
pretended, according to Scaligcr, to find all the Bible in Homer. 
Du Guere wrote an eulogium on wigs. Erasmus amused himself 
by discussing The praise of folly, in his work entitled Moria Enco- 
mium, which, for the sake of the pun, he dedicated to Sir Thomas 
More. Pierrius' Treatise on beards — Homer's war between The frogs 
and mice, and Lucian's dissertation on A fly, present a curious tri- 
umvirate of classic taste; and Gray's ode on The death of a cat — 
Pope's epic verses on A lock of hair, and Swift's Meditation on a 



204 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



hroovistick, may serve as their compauions in modern times. And 
as we have already seen ingenuity itself seems to have been over- 
tasked in the fabrication of the titles of books in early times, as, 
indeed, it is again becoming in our own ; authors of the olden time 
used to puff their own works, by affixing "taUng titles" to them; 
such as A right merrie and wittie enterlude, verie pleasante to reade, 
etc. A marvdloihs wittie treatise, etc. A delectable, pithie and righte 
profitable worke, etc. Addison's Spectator proved so successful, 
that it provoked Johnson to adopt The Idkr and Rambler. A 
very amusing blunder was committed by a certain French critic, 
who, notwithstanding the conventional use of the term, rendered 
it Le Chevalier Errant, and who, afterwards, on meeting with the 
" Colossus of English literature," addressed him with the astound- 
ing and complimentary epithet of Mr. Vagabond ! 

A pamphlet, published in It 03, had the following strange title: 
— The Deformitie of Sin Cured, a sermon preached at St. Michael's, 
Crooked Lane, before the Prince of Orange, by the Rev. J. Crook- 
shanks. Sold by Mathew Denton, at the Crooked Billet, near 
Cripplegate, and by all booksellers. The words of the text are, 
" Every crooked path shall be made straight." The Prince, before 
whom it was delivered, was defonned in person ! 

Many adopted allegorical titles. In theological works these 
were most frequent — such as " The Heart of Aaron," " The Bones 
of Joseph," " The Grarden of Nuts," and a host of others, even 
less allowable, might be adduced: as, "Afan to drive away flies," 
a treaties on purgatory; — TJie shop of the spiritual apothecary, 
Matches lighted by divine fire, The gun of penitence, etc. One of 
famous Puritan memory, Sir Humphrey Lind, published a book, 
which a Jesuit answered by another, entitled, A pair of spectacles 
for Sir Humphrey Lind ; — the doughty knight retorted by, A case 
far Sir Humphrey Lind's spectacles. Gascoigne's title page is no 
less quaint than copious: " A hundred sundrie flowres bounde vp 
in one small poesie: gathered partly by translation in the fyne and 
outlandish gardens of Euripides, Ovid, Petrarch, Ariosto, and 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 205 



others; and partly by iiiTcntioii out of our owu fruitefuU orchardes 
iu Euglaud: yielding sundric and divers swete savours of tragical, 
comical, and moral discourses, both pleasant and profitable to the 
well-smelling noses of learned readers." It is fortunate for these 
laborious scribes that they lived in times when they found readers 
courageous enough to venture beyond their titles. 

But as we have elsewhere cited some of these oddities, we pro- 
ceed to notice those foibles and frailties of the learned, which 
present a prolific theme for our contemplation ; in some instances 
these are traceable to physical causes, superinduced by their pecu- 
liar habits and pursuits, and in others, not unfrequently to the 
neglect which their seclusion and overwrought sensibilities pro- 
voked from their cotemporaries. All the devotees of the pen are 
more or less the victims of nervous debUity caused by their habits 
of excessive mental effort. Thus, to overtask the powers of the 
intellect, it is reasonable to expect, will as naturally tend to ener- 
vate them, as we find the like exertion of tue bodily functions 
resulting iu lassitude and fatigue. Dr. Johnson thus expresses 
himself on this equivocal state between actual health and disease: 
" I pine in the solitude of sickness, not bad enough to be pitied, 
and not well enough to be endured;" yet this powerful writer was 
never so great as when he was in this gloomy state: he then 
exhibited most of the vast opulence and gigantic energy of his 
intellect, as well as his delicate analysis of the secret sensibilities 
of the heart, as portions of his correspondence sufficiently evince. 
This feeling of physical languor and ennui, made the author of the 
Castle of Indoknce, so indolent himself, that he was reluctant to 
rise from his bed; and when once remonstrated against the prac- 
tice by a friend, replied, " Troth, mon, I see nae motive for rising." 
He was so excessively lazy, that he once was seen to be eating 
fruit from a peach tree, as it grew, standing with both hands in 
his . pockets. It would be uncharitable, however, to suppose 
Thomson a fit denizen for the Apragapolis of old, "a city built 
for those void of busmess." 



206 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Some of the habits and methods of study exhibit curious traita 
of character. The historian Mezerai studied by candlelight; and 
so accustomed was he to this use, that even at noon-day, and in 
the summer too, as if neither the heat nor the light of the burnmg 
sun were available for him, he is reported generally to have waited 
upon his company to the very door with a candle in his hand. 
When the famous Brindley encountered any extraordinary diffi- 
culty in the execution of his mechanical labors, he usually retired 
to his bed, where he has been known to be ensconced one, two, 
and even three whole days, till he had acquired strength to sur- 
mount it; when he would get up and finish his design. This prac- 
tice contravenes Dr. Whittaker's advice to Mr. Boyce, which 
ran as follows : — "First, to study always standmg; second, never 
to study in a window; and third, never to go to bed with his feet 
cold." Pope, besides being an epicure, would sometimes lie in bed 
at Lord Bolingbroke's for whole days together. 

It must be obvious, that indolent ease is as bad in its effects on 
the health as over-working. Lord Bacon is a case in point, with 
others, including the three divines, Hervey, Toplady, and Dr. 
Owen, the last of whom once exclaimed, that he would gladly 
barter all his learning obtained in bed for his lost health. Euri- 
pides studied in a dark cave — Demosthenes at night, and apart 
from the habitations of men — and the monks of the monastic 
times, in the hidden cloisters and ascetic cells; but we do not see 
that a neatl3^-fitted and convenient library or study offers less 
immunities to the votaries of science or the muses, than those 
abodes referred to. Not a few literary men seem to have loved 
"libations deep;" but we should not, perhaps, regard this species 
of moral delinquency with a stern vision of modern teetotalism, 
as the inebriate was not, till modern days, outlawed from the best 
society, ^schylus is said to have been always under the influence 
of the rosy god when he wrote: it is related, then his face looked 
ferocious — perhaps to this cause may be referred his vigorous 
imaginativeness. A similar weakness might also be chargeable 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 207 



on AIciEus, Aristophanes, and others of the classic age. Porson, 
the eminent Greek scholar, was a great tippler, while Anacreon 
only feigned the bacchanalian in his writings. In later days, 
Tasso and Schiller might be classed with the foregoing. Sir Wil- 
liam Blackstone was considerably indebted to "good old port" for 
some of his Commentaries; and even Addison and Byron must 
also be named, the latter confessing to the world that his poem of 
Don Juan, was the joint product of genius and gin and water. 
Without presuming any commentary on such indulgences, we pre- 
fer quoting the description of one Prynne, who bequeathed to 
posterity some forty volumes, for perpetrating one of which he 
was barbarously doomed to have his ears cropped in the pillory, 
and was almost suffocated by the immolation of his huge volumes 
— in which he mauitamed that it was Pope Alexander VII., who, 
in the " disguise of a coalman," came over to England and caused 
the great fire of London, etc. Aubrey says of him, " His manner 
of studie was thus: he wore a long quilt cap, which came two or 
three inches over his eies, which served him for an umbrella to 
defend his eies from the light ; about every three houres, his man 
was to bring him a roll and a pott of ale,|^ refocillate his wasted 
spirits; so he studied and drank, and this maintained him till night, 
when he made a good supper." These are but few of the modes 
resorted to by literary men to produce mental excitement ; many 
singular contrarieties of disposition they afford us; but we had 
forgotten Dryden, who used to ply himself with physic and phle- 
botomy before sitting down to any important work. His fancy 
would be the least likely to captivate our modern authors, as it 
must now be obvious to the reading community, we are fast 
receding from the age of voluntary self-martyrdom. 

To what curious extremes their habits of mental abstraction 
would have led, but for the indulgence of authors in such harmless, 
though singular pastimes, it is difficult to conjecture. Newton, 
when once engaged on a mathematical subtlety, would suffer noth- 
ing to interrupt his investigations. It is related of him that more 



208 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



than on one such occasion he kept the dinner waiting three whole 
hours : and a similar interval also once intervened in the very act 
of his assuming his nether garments. Morel, the French writer, 
possessed such devotion to study, that when the fatal sickness of 
his wife, and shortly afterwards her death, were announced to him, 
he could not be prevailed upon to resign his pen, but simply 
replied, " I am very sorry, she was a good woman." And another 
learned scribe, no less indifferent to connubial claims, actually 
devoted the whole of his wedding day to his books. Mason, the 
author of the " Spiritual Treasury," while engaged upon that work, 
being called upon by a person m business, gave his name and 
address ; but when the author subsequently referred to the card 
on which he ought to have written the same, it contained instead 
the following — Acts, 2:2! This is about equal to the divine, 
who for the first time appearing with spectacles which he did not 
use, as he placed them over his forehead, being met with the obser- 
vation, "Well, doctor, so you have at last taken to spectacles," 
replied, "Yes, I found I could not read without them, and wonder 
I have so long." 

Among the pains an^^ penalties of authorship, the critical cen- 
sorship of the press has had its share. Cumberland once said, 
"authors should be shelled likv^ the rhinoceros;" but it would be 
hard, says one, were the linnet, or the nightindale, to cease from 
warbling, because they cannot sing in a storm. Severe and 
unmerited criticism has been but too frequently the bane of litera- 
ture, although, as in the instance of Byron, it has ultimately tended 
to elicit the nobler development of talent, which otherwise might 
never have been brought into action. Some writers have been 
driven mad, and others have actually died of criticism. Hawkes- 
worth was a case of the latter, and Tasso the former. Voltaire 
called these " dreaded ministers of literary justice," la canailh de la 
litteraiure, but he, like Pope, suffered retribution at their hands ; 
and no less remarkable is the fact of the erroneous criticism of 
some of the learned respecting the productions of other writers. 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 209 



One memorable case might be named here, which went beyond 
mere criticism : we refer to that of Count Mazarin, who kept a 
complete collection of the libels written against him — it amounted 
to forty-six quarto volumes ; and there have been also more 
instances than one of unfortunate writers of state libels, being com- 
pelled to recant them in the most emphatic manner — by eating 
literally their own words. One occurred at Moscow, where the 
poor advocate of the liberties of the people paid this most unmer- 
ciful penalty of his patriotism. A scaffold being erected in a 
conspicuous part of the city, with a surgeon on one side, and the 
knout on the other, our hapless author was compelled to swallow 
his book, leaf by leaf, neatly rolled up like a lottery ticket — taking 
what the surgical attendant deemed a suitable quantum at a time 
for a digestible meal, during three whole days in which he accom- 
plished the humiliating task, to the singular entertainment of the 
populace he had sought to serve. He, at any rate, could subscribe 
to the sentiment, that a great book is a great bore. 

An amusing anecdote is related of a certain French writer, who, 
failing to please the critics of his day, by his avowed productions, 
afterwards resorted to the expedient of publishing three volumes 
of poetry and essays, as the works of a journeyman blacksmith. 
The trick succeeded — all France was in amazement ; and the 
poems of this child of nature — this untutored genius — this inspired 
sou of Vulcan, as he was now called, were immediately and enthu- 
siastically praised, even by the very critics who before repudiated 
the effusions of the same pen. Byron was condemned, among 
other crimes, for not having dated his first poems from the purlieus 
of Grub-street ; and Keats was barbarously attacked in a similar 
manner, by no less a critic than Gifford — a circumstance to which 
has been remotely ascribed the premature decease of that gifted 
poet ; for, on reading the article in question, his feelings became 
80 excited, that he burst a blood-vessel, which induced consump- 
tion, of which he died at the age of twenty-four. Moore relates 
that such also was the effect of the savage attack upon Byron, that 



210 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



a friend who happened to call on him shortly after he had read it, 
inquired whether he had received a challenge, such fierce defiance 
was depicted in his countenance. It was about the same time that 
the opposite critical organ commenced a paper on Wordsworth's 
" £!xcursion," -with, the derisive words — "This will never do; we 
give him up as altogether incurable and beyond the power of criti- 
cism." The sweet sonneteer of Windermere has fortunately out- 
lived the ignorant intolerance of this sapient censor, as he now 
occupies the highest honors of the temple of fame. Poor Kirke 
White was another sad instance of literary assassination : when 
only seventeen he published his volume of poems, in hopes by its 
sale of procuring sufficient money to enable him to go to college ; 
but he was doomed to the merciless cruelties of an attack in the 
Monthly Review. How grievously the unjust criticism tortured 
his sensitive mind, may be gathered from his own woi'ds : "This 
Review," he says, "goes before me wherever I turn my steps, 
and is, I verily believe, an instrument in the hands of Satan to 
drive me to distraction." Southey kindly consoled and encou- 
raged him to persevere, but wasting disease soon hurried the 
young poet away, and it was Southey's friendly hand that first 
gathered his scattered and despised works, and gave them to the 
world. 

The philosophic Newton was far from being invulnerable to the 
shafts of his critical opponents ; for even Whiston, the friend of 
twenty years, forfeited his favor for all time by a single contradic- 
tion ; for "No man," says he, "was of a more fearful temper." 
Whiston farther declares, that he would not have thought proper 
to have published his work against Newton's Chronology in his 
lifetime, as he firmly believed it would have killed him ; and it was 
the expressed opinion of Dr. Bentley, that Locke's thorough refu- 
tation of the Bishop's metaphysics about the Trinity, actually 
hastened his end. 

Our sympathies become the more deeply enlisted for the penalties 
of authorship, when we remember the pains with which the pro- 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 211 



ductions of genius have been accompanied ; and these are not likely 
to be overrated by the many. Numerous instances arc upon 
record, proving that the emanations of mind have been attended 
with severe and laborious industry: and we may as well cite a 
few, perhaps, here. 

So scrupulously fastidious was Pope as to nicety of expression, 
that it is known he seldom committed to the press anything till it 
had passed under his repeated inspection and revision, sometimes 
keeping it by him even a year or more for the purpose ; and his 
publisher, Dodsley, on one occasion deemed it easier to reprint the 
whole of his corrected proofs than attempt the needed emendations. 
Thomson, Akenside, Gray, and Cowper, were equally devoted in 
their elaboration of a line ; and Goldsmith gave seven long years 
to the perfection of his inimitable production, the Deserted Vil- 
lage : producing, on the average, something like three or four lines 
per diem, which he thought' a good day's work. Hume and 
Robertson were incessantly laboring over their language — the 
latter used even to ■v\Tite his sentences on small slips of paper, and 
after rounding and polishing them to his satisfaction, he entered 
them in a book, which afterwards was again subjected to a final 
revision. 

Many an immortal work, that is a source of exquisite enjoyment 
to mankind, has been written with the blood of the author, at the 
expense of his happiness and of his life. Even the most jocose 
productions have been composed with a wounded spbit. Cowper's 
humorous ballad of Gilpin was written in a state of despondency 
that bordered upon madness. "I wonder," says the poet, in a 
letter to Mr. Newton, "that a sportive thought should ever knock 
at the door of my intellects, and still more that it should gain 
admittance. It is as if harlequin should intrude himself into the 
gloomy chamber where a corpse is deposited in state." Our very 
greatest wits have not been men of a gay and vivacious disposition. 
Of Butler's private history, nothing remains but the record of his 
miseries, and Swift was seldom known to smile. Lord Byron, who 



212 SALAD rOR THE SOLITARY. 



was irritable and unhappy, wrote some of the most amusing stanzas 
of Don Juan in his dreariest moods. Hood, the great punster, 
is another case in point. In fact, an author's style is always but 
a doubtful indication of his heart. 

Burke had all his principal works printed once or twice at a 
private press before submitting them to his publisher. Johnson 
and Gibbon were exceptions to these, it is true ; they wrote spon- 
taneously, and their first draft was the only one they gave to the 
press : and yet the majesty and beauty of theu" diction remain, 
unsurpassed at the present day. The French writers, Rousseau and 
St. Pierre, carried their scrupulosity to an amusing excess. The 
former used to write out his new Heloise on fine gilt-edged paper, 
and with the two-fold affection of a lover and a parent, repeatedly 
rehearsed his effusions to the ravishment of his own delighted ears 
before sending them to the printer ; and the latter transcribed his 
Paul and Virginia no less than nine times, with the view of ren- 
dering it as perfect as any mundane thing may be. Sheridan, it 
has been well observed, watched long and anxiously for a bright 
idea, and when he was visited with one, he sought to attire it suit- 
ably, and afterwards discovered no less assiduity in rewarding it 
with a glass or two of generous port. Burns was another hard 
worker with his brain ; when his fickle muse jaded, he used to 
rock himself on a chair, and gaze upon the sky, patiently waiting 
her inspu:ation. He was fastidious to a fault in the perfecting of 
his phrase and rhythm. The same delicate sense characterises 
Byron, Scott, Moore, Campbell, and Bulwer, the last of whom 
used to victimise the printer for seven successive revises. We 
might swell the list of laborious writers still further, but it is need- 
less ; and yet we have not alluded to many who devoted their 
whole lives to a single production, like Dr. Copland, whose re- 
nowned Dictionary of Practical Medicine has already occupied his 
undivided attention some twenty-five years. We cannot, how- 
ever, refrain from quoting one more name — that of the erudite, 
but ill-fated Castell, the author of Lexicon Heptaglotton, since it 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 213 



presents so singular an example of great generosity, combined 
with the most herculean literary industry. He was literally a 
martyr to letters, a case of voluntary immolation of himself and 
liis fortune to his darling pursuits. It is impossible to read un- 
moved his pathetic appeal to Charles II., in which he laments the 
seventeen years of incredible pains, during which he thought him- 
self idle when he had not devoted sixteen or eighteen hours a 
day to the Lexicon ; that he had expended all his inheritance, 
(more than twelve thousand pounds) ; that it had broken his con- 
stitution, and left him blind, as well as poor. When this invalu- 
able Polyglott was published, the copies remained unsold on his 
hands ; for the learned Castell had anticipated the curiosity and 
knowledge of the public by a full century. He had so completely 
devoted himself to Oriental studies, that they had a very remark- 
able consequence ; for he had totally forgotten his own language, 
and could scarcely spell a single word. This appears in some of 
his English letters, preserved by Mr. Nichols, in his " Literary 
Anecdotes." 

It is supposed that above five hundred of his Lexicons were un- 
sold at the time of his death. They were placed by his neice and 
executrix in a room at Martin, in Surrey, where for some years 
they lay at the mercy of the rats ; and when they came into the 
possession of this lady's executors, scarcely one complete volume 
could be formed out of the remainder, and the whole load of 
learned rags sold only for seven pounds ! A single imperfect copy 
recently sold for a larger sum. 

Pity that the awards of fame should come so laggardly to her 
true votaries ; but so it is. In how many cases has it been proven 
that the only requitals of transcendent genius have been poverty, 
dishonor, and sometimes an inglorious end ; leaving it to after 
times to repair the injustice of lordly ignorance and superstitious 
intolerance. Roger Bacon, the parent of more original discoveries 
than any of his day, committed this treason against his cotempo- 
raries, and in consequence enlisted their persecution for his crime. 



214 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



having been twice imprisoned, once for the long period of ten years. 
To say nothing of his claims to numerous works on the explo- 
ded science of alchemy, posterity have yet allowed his title to the 
discovery of gunpowder and the telescope. We might readily 
refer to other instances of the kind, even down to the tunes of 
Fulton. But where to limit our rambling pen, in dilating upon 
the misfortunes of authors, is no easy task, the instances that occur 
are so manifold and marvelous. What shall we say of the cruel 
and heartless ingratitude shown to the intellectual, magnanimous 
and humane Bentivoglio, who, when reduced to the extremest dis- 
tress, caused by his own munificence, was actually refused admis- 
sion into the very hospital himself had erected. 

" Thus birds for others build the downy nest ; 
Thus sheep for others bear the fleecy vest ; 
Thus bees collect for others honey'd food ; 
Thus ploughs the patient ox for others' good." 

Prideaux, afterwards bishop of Worcester, was in early life so 
poor as to be obliged to walk on foot to the university, where 
he at first obtained a menial situation in the kitchen of Exeter 
College, which college he did not leave till he became one of its 
fellows. The two Milners, who wrote the well-known history of 
the Christian Church, were originally weavers, as was also Dr. 
White, late regius professor of Arabic. The celebrated John 
Hunter received scarcely any education until he had attained the 
age of twenty, and then was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker : yet 
he became one of the greatest anatomists that ever lived. 

Numerous as have been the institutions designed for the relief 
of the indigent poor, but one is only known to have been erected 
for the especial benefit of the hapless author ; and this, established 
by Pope Urban YIIL, bore the strangely significant name of the 
"Retreat of the Incurables," as if implying that its devotees were 
deemed irreclaimable alike from the crime of poverty and author- 
ship. To glance adown the stream of time for a moment, we may 



INFELICITIES OP THE INTELLECTUAL. 215 



mention many memorable cases of the pecuniary discomfiture of 
literary men, whose names are as valued with us as the precious 
metals are with the miserly worshipper of mammon. Homer, (if 
such a personage ever lived,) we are informed, was not only de- 
prived the use of his optics, but was miserably in need of the 
necessaries of life, and had to rehearse his ballads to the vul- 
gar populace for his meagre subsistence. Plautus, combined, for 
the convenience of his stomach, the avocations of poet with that 
of a turner of a mill. Terrence and Boethius died in " durance 
vile ;" Cervantes died for lack of bread ; and the well-known 
author of the " Lusiad," ended his career ignobly in an almshouse. 
Tasso was subjected to the most humiliating exigencies : on one 
occasion, having addressed a sonnet to his favorite cat, in which 
he begs the light of her eyes to write by, as he was too poor to 
buy a candle ! Collins' mental derangement and death were superin- 
duced by long neglect ; Steele lived in a perpetual state of warfare 
with bailiffs; and Goldsmith usually suffered similar distractions ; 
Lee, Fielding, Otway, Savage, De Lolrae, Butler, Chattcrton, 
Cotton, Anton, Fletcher, Kirkc White, Logan, Burns, and others, 
whose Avritings emblazon the escutcheon of fame, afford unequivo- 
cal evidence of the fact that opulence and authorship are not twin 
sisters. Rushworth, whose valuable historical collections remained 
without a printer, was doomed to prison for the balance of his 
life, a period of six long years ; while Boyce was actually found 
dead in a garret, with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, fas- 
tened by a wooden skewer, with a pen in his hand. 

" When Butler, needy -wretch, was yet alive, 
No generous patron would a dinner give. 
See him, resolved to clay and turned to dust. 
Presented with a monumental bust ! 
The Poet's fate is here in emblem shown — 
He asked for bread, and he received a stone." 

A recent mstance of the supremacy of poetry over poverty, 



216 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



may be seen in the case of Cooper, the Chartist. Dr. Croly pro- 
nounced his "Prison Rhyme" "the most wonderful effort of intel- 
lectual power produced within the past century." Our poet adds 
his name to the illustrious list of those who have turned a prison 
into a palace. In his cell in Stafford Jail, what visions of beauty 
and magnificence, and what ecstacies and raptures have been expe- 
rienced as a counterbalance against the solitude, silence and suffer- 
ing consequent upon his incarceration. 

Sterne relates the following story of himself : "I happened to 
be acquainted with a young man who had been bound apprentice 
to a stationer in Yorkshire: he had just then finished his time, set 
up in London, and had rented a window in one of the alleys in the 
city, I hired one of the panes of glass from my friend, and stuck 
up the following advertisement on it with a wafer: 

" ' Epigrams, Anagrams, Paragragrams, Chronograms, 
Monograms, Epitaphs, Epithilamiums, Prolognes, Epilogues, 
Madrigals, Interludes, Advertisements, Letters, Petitions, 
Memorials on every occasion, Essays on all Subjects, Pamph- 
lets for or against the Ministry, with Sermons upon every 
text, or for any sect, to be written here on reasonable 
terms, by A. B. Philologeh,' 

"The uncommonness of the titles occasioned numerous applica- 
tions; and at night I used privately to glide into my office to 
digest the notes or heads of the day, and receive the earnests, 
which were directed always to be left with the memorandums ; the 
writing to be paid for on delivery, according to the subject. The 
ocean of vice and folly that opened itself to my view during the 
period I continued in this odd department of life, shocked and dis- 
gusted me so much, that the very moment I had realized a small 
sum, and discharged the rent of my pane, I closed the horrid 
scene." 

Bloomfield, the pastoral poet, by dint of working, acquired a 
bed of his own, and hired a room up one pair of stairs, at No. 14 
Bell Alley. It was while living here that he sent the manuscript 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 217 



of "The Farmer's Boy" to Mr. Capol Loft, who was so delighted 
with it that he undertook all the charges of publishing. Dryden, 
for less than three hundred pounds, sold Tonson ten thousand 
verses, as may be seen by the agreement which has been published. 
Savage, in the pressing hour of distress, sold that eccentric poem 
" The Wanderer," which had occupied him several years, for ten 
pounds. Even the great Milton, as every one knows, sold his 
immortal work for ten pounds to a bookseller, being too poor to 
undertake the printing of it on his own account: and Otway, a 
dramatic poet of the first class, is known to have perished of 
hunger. Defoe, author of two hundred books and pamphlets, died 
insolvent. Sheriden and his wife had to write for their daily " leg 
of mutton," — Si joint concern, although a very slender one. 

" Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound ; 
All at her work the village maiden sings, 
And, while she turns the giddy wheel around, 
Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things." 

" And thus it happens that the poet, rich in his poverty, carries 
with him sweet grapes to quench his thirst, and greenest trees to 
shelter his repose. The stormy day is better for him than the 
calm. We are told by naturalists that bu-ds of paradise fly best 
against the wind ; it drifts behind them the gorgeous train of 
feathers, which only entangle their flight with the gale. Pure 
imagination, of which the loveliest of winged creatures is the 
fitting emblem, seems always to gain a vigor and grace by the 
tempests it encounters, and in contrary winds to show the brighest 
plumage." * 

Even Dryden sunk into neglect in his old age, having died in a 
garret, in an obscure corner of London ; being visited by a friend 
in his last moments, who commiserated his situation, he replied, 
" You feel and weep for my sufferings, but never mind, the pang 



• WiUraott. 

10 



218 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



will soon be all over." Chatterton, in Brooke street, starved two 
days before he cut his throat ; Dr. Johnson was once found in the 
most desponding hopelessness in a garret, destitute even of ink and 
paper with which to transcribe his lucubrations. When Goldsmith 
had nearly completed his " Yicar," his landlady one day surprised 
him by a demand for his board and lodging ; and on his declaring 
his utter inabihty to meet it, she proposed to cancel her claim on 
his becoming her spouse ; this the timely arrival of Johnson pre- 
vented, as he aided him in the liquidation of the debt. Dr. John- 
son relates with infinite humor the circumstance of his rescuing 
Goldsmith from a ridiculous dilemma by the purchase money of his 
" Vicar of Wakefield," which he sold on his behalf to Dodsley, and, 
it is thought, for the sum of ten pounds only. He had run up a 
debt with his landlady, for board and lodging, of some few pounds, 
and was at his wits'-end how to wipe off the score, and keep a roof 
over his head, except by closing with a very staggering proposal on 
her part, and taking his creditor to wife, whose charms were very 
far from alluring, whilst her demands were extremely urgent. In 
this crisis of his fate, he was found by Johnson in the act of medi- 
tating on the melancholy alternative before him. He showed 
Johnson his manuscript of the " Vicar of Wakefield," but seemed 
to be without any plan or even hope of raising money upon the 
disposal of it. When Johnson cast his eye upon it he discovered 
something that gave him hope, and immediately took it to Dods- 
ley, who paid down the price above mentioned in ready money, and 
added an eventual condition upon its future sale. Johnson de- 
scribed the precautions he took in concealing the amount of the 
sum he had in hand, which he prudently administered to him by a 
guinea at a time. In the event he paid off the landlady's score, 
and redeemed the person of his friend from her clutches. 

If we turn to France, we shall there find even stronger instances 
of the hapless destiny of genius. Vaugelas, one of the politest 
writers, and one of the most honest men of his time, was surnamed 
the Owl, from his being obliged to keep within all day, and venture 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 219 



out only by night, through fear of his creditors. His last will is 
very remarkable. After bequeathing all his worldly substance to 
the discharge of his debts, he goes on thus : 

" But as there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even after 
all that I have shall be disposed of, in such a case it is my last will 
that my body should be sold to the surgeons to the best advan- 
tage, and that the purchase money should go to the discharging 
those debts which I owe to society ; so that if I could not, while 
living, at least when dead I may be useful." 

That is "honest to the back-bone" at any rate. 

In our own times, how many sad instances of poverty being the 
inheritance of poets, occur to the memory? — the great "poet 
of the poor," Ebenezer Elliott, followed the calUng of an iron- 
monger ; Clare that of a common day-laborer ; Hogg was a 
shepherd-boy ; Miller a basket-maker ; Kirk White originally car- 
ried out the basket of the butcher, which he afterwards exchanged 
for the hosier's loom. 

D'Israeli has a prolific chapter on this subject ; among their 
other misfortunes, he collates the following cases of incarceration 
of authors ; his object, however, being to show that their imprison- 
ment rather promoted than retarded the progress of their studies. 
It was while immured within the gloomy walls of a dungeon that 
Boethius composed his well-known " Consolations of Philosophy," 
Grotius wrote his " Commentary on St. Matthew," and Buchanan 
his excellent " Paraphrases." The renowned Cervantes, in Bar- 
bary, and " Fleta," written in the " Fleet" afford similar proofs ; 
the name of the ^place, though not of the author, having been pre- 
served, in commemoration of the fact ; while another work, 
"Fleta Minor," or "the laws of art and nature in knowing the 
bodies of metals," by Fetters, 1683, derived also its title from the 
circumstance of its having been translated from the German dur- 
ing the author's confinement in this prison. Louis XII., and 
Margaret, consort of Henry IV. of France, as well as Charles I. 
of England, made good use of the pen under similar circumstances 



220 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



— the latter having indited his well-known Eikon Basilike, or the 
Royal Image, the authorship of which has given rise to so much 
curious speculation among the learned. Queen Elizabeth, while 
confined by her sister Mary, wrote several poems, which are said 
never to have been equalled after her enlargement; and the unfor- 
tunate Mary, Queen of Scots, during her long imprisonment, pro- 
duced many pleasmg poetic compositions, one of which, her Last 
Prayer, we transcribe for the sake of its plaintive melody and 
beauty. It was written originally in Latin ; we append an 
English rendering of it, for the benefit of those who prefer a ver- 
nacular version : 

" Oh ! Domine Deus, " Oh ! my God and my Lord, 

Speravi in te — I have trusted in thee ; 

Oh ! carime Jesu, Oh ! Jesu, my Love, 

Nunc libera me. Now liberate me. 

In dura, catena,, In my enemies' power, 

In misera, poena. In affliction's sad hour 

Desidero te. I languish for thee. 

Languendo, gemendo, In sorrowing, weeping, 

Et genufiectendo, And bending the knee, 

Adoro, imploro I adore and implore thee 

Ut liberes me !" To liberate me !" 

In glancing over the story of many a literary life, how touching 
are its appeals to our own sympathy ! Who can read the above 
without feeling then* force ? It is not every one who has philoso- 
phy enough to abide the impudent reply made to the learned 
Frenchman, Treret, who, on being summarily taken from his sick- 
bed to the Bastile, after patiently submitting for several weeks to 
his " durance vile," on inquiring for what offence he was so treated, 
received from his officer the following heartless and insolent 
response : " Sir, I think you have a deal of curiosity 1" Every 
one has read the history and woes of Silvio Pellico, the author of 
Francesca da Rimini, and other renowned Italian tragedies, whose 
love of poetry survived so many years of his gloomy incarceration. 



INFELICITIES OP THE INTELLECTUAL. 221 



Sir Walter Raleigh's memorable "History of the World," 
although unfinished, remains a noble monument of his learning, 
industry, and indomitable perseverance, under circumstances so 
apparently adverse to the cultivation of letters as those in which 
he was placed, during the gloomy lapse of his eleven years' impri- 
sonment. We might also cite numerous others ; but two more 
names must suffice ; they are of equal celebrity — both being 
remarkable instances of high genius, although remotely opposite in 
character. We refer to Yoltaire and Bunyan, the former, who, 
while in the Bastile, sketched the plan and partly completed 
his Henriadde; and the latter, who, during his cruel incarceration, 
in Bedford jail, produced his world renowned Pilgrim's Progress. 
And how many more, like McDiarmid, have exhibited the sad 
combination of genius allied to abject poverty? who, as D'Israeh 
relates, while engaged upon his "System of Military Defence," 
became so study-worn and emaciated that his hollow eyes seemed 
hke dim lamps shining in the tomb. His entire life was, indeed, 
one continuous strife with the fell spoiler ; often the day passed 
cheerfully without its meal, but never without its page I 

An enthusiastic temperament is also often the accompaniment 
of genius — a feature of character that renders it the easy victim of 
delusion and credulity. Numerous instances might be adduced in 
proof. Su* Isaac Newton was half inoculated with the absurdities 
of judicial astrology. Dr. Johnson was proverbially superstitious. 
What curious paradoxes may be seen between the writings and 
actions of the same men. Hobbes, the deist, was a most devout 
believer in ghosts and spiritual existences. Locke, the matter-of- 
fact philosopher, was an inordinate reader of romance, and revelled 
in works of fiction. And too truly has the character of the great 
Francis Verulam been depicted as " the wisest, greatest, meanest 
of mankind !" 

Turn we for a moment to the domestic peculiarities of the 
learned, we shall find no less abundant evidence of the verity of 
their true designation — genus irritabik. Johnson evinced his ner- 



222 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



vous irritability by biting his nails to the very quick. Another 
worthy but eccentric bibliopole, WUUam Coke, of Leith, who died 
some dozen years since, presents also a singular instance of a 
quick and irritable temperament ; although we may scarcely won- 
der at his case, he having given us, if not an all-sufficient, at any 
rate, a somewhat ludicrous dioe to his malady, for he was actually 
caught one day rubbing his head in whiskey ! — ^no marvel that he 
was hot-headed. Others again indulged strange vagaries and 
humors; — such as Menage, who, while science covered his head 
with laurels, used to cover his feet with several pairs of stockings. 
Pope used to brace hunself up with corsets. It is related that 
Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, 
used to divert himself with pelting spiders. He seldom left his 
books, for he usually ate, drank and slept among them ; thus imi- 
tating the domestic propensities for his favorites. Sir Walter 
Scott entertained an absurd opinion that his poetic vein never 
flowed happy except between the vernal and autumnal equinoxes ; 
he was accustomed to rise at four, and walk about his room in a 
state of nudity, calling it his air-breath. Rousseau, when doomed 
to the company of the common-place, occupied himself with knitting 
lace strings, which he evidently preferred to long yarns. Bloom- 
field wrote his Farmer's Boy with chalk upon the top of a pair of 
bellows — a wind instrument, till then a novelty in the choir of the 
Muses. The author, it is thus evident, is both more at ease and 
more to advantage in his study than anywhere else ; and it is not 
surprising that we find him covet this seclusive retreat, and indulge 
his predilection sometimes at the expense of the rules of etiquette 
and courtesy. 

Montesquieu's complaining epistle to a friend, affords evidence 
of this, where he intimates that the frequent and protracted visits 
of certain intruders caused much detriment to the progress of his 
works. Another scribe was so avaricious of his time, that his 
frequent appeals proving unavailing, he caused to be inscribed 
over the door of his study the inviting announcement, that who- 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 223 



ever remained there must join iu his labors. Melancthon, like 
Evelyn, was so chary of his time allotted to study, that he would 
note the intervals wasted by intrusive visitants, in order to redeem 
them from the hours devoted to repose. Others have been driven 
to the forlorn expedient of escaping from their window, being so 
Iiedged in by their considerate friends, as to be allowed of no 
more convenient egress; and Boyle, actually had to resort to the 
advertising columns of a newspaper, to secure exemption from 
similar annoyances. A few words touching the connubial infeli- 
cities of the learned will bring our chapter to a close. That there 
have existed some renowned in the annals of literature, who, like 
Budoeus, enjoyed the singular good fortune to retain the full mea- 
sure of matrimonial happiness, conjoined with the pleasures of lit- 
erary pursuits, cannot be denied ; but it may be doubted whether 
these do not form exceptions to rule. This great writer found in 
his wife an invaluable assistant iu his arduous studies; ever at his 
side, assiduously collating, comparing, or transcribing, she con- 
tributed essentially to the reduction of his literary toils. In one 
of his letters he represents himself as married to two wives, one 
of whom blessed him with pleasant little ones, the other with 
books. Evelyn was no less felicitous in this respect, for he was 
indebted for much of his success to his amiable wife, whose refined 
taste and skill were equal to any emergency ; and whose breast 
was fired with the same passion that inflamed her husband's pen; 
it was to her ingenious pencil the embellishment to his translation 
of Lucretius owed its origin. It is also true that many, we might 
perhaps say the majority of great men, seem to have repudiated 
matrimony altogether, probably from some premonition of their 
disqualification for its enjoyments. A host of great names occur 
to us, presenting an astounding array of sturdy old bachelors, 
enough to startle the complacency of the most charitable of the 
fair sex. Michael Angelo, Boyle, Newton, Locke, Bayle, Shen- 
stone, Leibnitz, Hobbes, Yoltaire, Pope, Adam Smith, Swift, 
Thomson, Akenside, Arbuthnot, Hume, Gibbon, Cowper, Gold- 



224 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



smith, Gay, Lamb, Washington Irving, et cum multis aliis, were 
all decided for celebacy. Michael Angelo replied to a remon- 
strance on the subject, that he had espoused his art, and his works 
were his children. Dr. Radclifife lived and died unmarried ; 
although within five or six years prior to his decease, he fell des- 
perately in love with a patient of rank, wealth and beauty, triple 
charms to fascinate even an old beau; but alas for this gallant 
hero, his suit became non-suited, and to his mortification his rejec- 
ted addresses were afterwards immortalized by Steele in his 
"Tattler." Without staying to inquire into the causes which 
superinduce this anti-social feature of the literary character, it 
may not be amiss to notice some of its anomalies. For example, 
Smollett, whose writings are but too frequently found not only 
prurient, but indelicate, was yet unimpeachable in his morals. 
La Fontaine wrote fictions, fertile in intrigues, but he is not known 
to have left one amour on record in which he personally enacted a 
part. Sir Thomas More, who was a strenuous advocate of free 
toleration, yet himself became a fierce and bigoted persecutor; 
and Young, although constantly denouncing a love of preferment, 
was all his life long secretly pining after it, and, while the most 
sombrous of poets, was in private life a trifling punster. Cowper, 
the melancholy and misanthropic, perpetrated, that laughter-pro- 
voking ballad, Johnny Gilpin ; and we find a similar contradictory 
characteristic in Sterne's whining over a dead donkey, while he 
proved himself bankrupt in human sympathy and natural aifection, 
beating his wife, and leaving his maternal parent desolate and 
neglected in her last moments. 

Byron's misanthropy, also, was only to be found in his pen ; for 
his moral self seemed a strange compound of vanity and affecta- 
tion, united with a love of the ludicrous, sarcasm and irony. And 
poor Hood, the punster, whose master-passion gave melancholy 
evidence of its absorbing power over him, even at the hour of dis- 
solution, — while his wit was vibrating the national heart, his own 
suffered from the extremest melancholy Among the many extem- 



INFELICITIES OF THE INTELLECTUAL. 225 



pore puns he uttered iu his sickness, in describing to a friend his 
near approach to dissolution, he could not resist his ruling impulse, 
for he added, " I came so near to death's door, that I heard the 
creaking of its hinges." 

It would be no uninteresting literary speculation, icmarks Mr. 
D'Israeli, to describe the diflSculties which some of our most favor- 
ite works encountered in their manuscript state, and even after they 
had passed through the press. Sterne, when he had finished his 
first and second volumes of "Tristram Shandy," offered them to a 
bookseller at York for fifty pounds, but was refused : he came to 
town with his MSS., and he and Robert Dodsley agreed in a man- 
ner, of which neither repented. 

"The Rosciad," with all its merit, lay for a considerable time 
in a dormant state, till Churchill and his publisher became impa- 
tient, and almost hopeless of success. "Burn's Justice" was dis- 
posed of by its author, who was weary of soliciting booksellers to 
purchase the MS. for a trifle, and now it yields an annual income. 
Collins burnt his odes before the door of his publisher. The 
" Essay on Truth," by Dr. Beattie, could find no publisher to pur- 
chase it, and was printed by two friends of the author, at their 
joint expense. "The Historical Connexion of the Old and New 
Testament," by Shuckford, is also reported to have been seldom 
inquired after for about twelve months. The MS. of Dr. Prideaux's 
" Connexion," is well-hnown to have been offered to five or six of 
the most eminent booksellers, during the space of at least two 
years, to no purpose, none of them undertaking to print that 
excellent work. It lay in obscurity till Archdeacon Echard, the 
author's friend, strongly recommended it to Tonson. It was pur- 
chased, and the publication was very successful. The undertaker 
of the translation of Rapin, after a very considerahle part of the 
work had been published, was not a little doubtful of its success, 
and was strongly inclined to drop the design. It proved at last to 
be a most profitable literary adventure. It is, perhaps, useful to 
record, that while the fine compositions of genius, and the elabo- 

10* 



226 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



rate works of erudition, are doomed to encounter these obstacles 
to fame, and seldom more than slightly remunerated, books of 
another description are rewarded in a most princely manner : at 
the recent sale of a bookseller, the copy-right of " Yyse's Spelling- 
Book" was sold at the enormous price of iE2,200, with an annuity 
of fifty guineas to the author. Like many other works, which 
have since become classics, Thomson's " Seasons'' long in vain 
sought a publisher. Beresford received but £20 for " His Miseries 
of Human Life," yet the work is said to have ultimately realized 
iE5,000. Shall we infer from this that the booksellers are utterly 
destitute of critical acumen ? On the contrary, while they have 
been influenced by the prevailing popular taste, they have been 
usually conspicuous for their liberality to authors, since they are 
their patrons and friends. 

"Poetry is," according to Coleridge, "its own exceeding great 
reward," and this is about all the awards which fall to its votaries. 
Intellectual endowments are of themselves too costly and rare to 
be vulgarized by sordid gains. Yet who does not compassionate 
the privations and poverty of the mighty minds, whose genius has 
enriched the realm of thought with the bright creations of fancy, 
or whose patient and laborious studies have revealed to us the 
great mysteries of science — a wealth so vast, that no pecuniary 
returns on our part could adequately compensate. 





CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 

" Let 's talk of graves, and worms, and epitapha " 

There is scarcely any subject of more touching interest, or one 
that awakens a deeper sympathy in the human heart. If we may 
not hold intercourse with the venerated dead, the mind is instinc- 
tively beguiled into a reverie so irresistibly bewitching that we 
seem to share a sQent colloquy with our ghostly companions ; and 
then our thoughts anticipate our own, in musing over their last, 
long resting place. 

" Man's home is in the grave ! 
Here dwell the multitude ; we gaze around, 
We read their monuments, we sigh, and while 
We sigh, we sink." 



The early, though now almost obsolete usage of decking the 



228 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 

graves of the deceased with flowers — a custom observed among the 
Greeks and Romans, and even down to modern times in many 
parts of England, Wales and Germany — is fraught with the most 
delightful associations ; and induces an elevation of sentiment and 
a poetry of feeling, equally calculated to mollify our grief, and to 
invest the sepulchre with the kindling emotions of hope and immor- 
tality. The epitaph of the founder of Grecian tragedy, the cele- 
brated Sophocles, written by Simonides, proves that such a custom 
of honoring the illustrious dead then existed : 

" Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid. 
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs and intertwine 
With blushing roses and the clustering vine ; 
So shall thy lasting leaves, with beauty hung, 
Prove a fit emblem of the lays he sung." 

There can scarcely be imagined a more delightful place, than 
that valley of unfading green and everlasting flowers, where Sadi, 
the royal Persian poet, is entombed. Hafiz, of the same nation, 
and scarcely less renowed as a poet, planted with his own hands 
the cypress under which be directed his body to be entombed, and 
over which, for ages, his enthusiastic admirers and countrymen 
scattered roses, and hung chaplets of flowers. " We adorn 
graves," says Evelyn, "with flowers and redolent plants, just 
emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in the Holy 
Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in 
dishonor, rise again in glory." 

These hallowed rites of burial in some of the rural districts of 
the fatherland have been so exquisitely detailed by Irving in his 
Sketch Book, that it would be presumptuous temerity in us to 
indulge in such recitals ; yet we may be allowed to attest the 
faithfulness of his admirable sketches, having been an eye-witness 
of several such touching scenes in England and South Wales ; and 
a listener to many a mournful dirge, as the pageantry of death 
moved noiselessly on. 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 229 



" These token flowers that tell 
What words could never speak so well," 

were rendered peculiarly expressive of the circumstances of the 
deceased ; for example, at the funeral of a young female, the 
chaplet-wreath of white roses was borne by one of her own sex 
and age before the corpse, the token of virgin purity and inno- 
cence, and afterwards hung over her accustomed seat at the 
church ; the rose was also sometimes blended with the lily as the 
emblem of frail mortality ; the red rose for such as had been 
remarkable for benevolence ; and when it was intended to betoken 
the hapless loves or sorrows of the departed, the yew and cypress 
were used. Stanley, the poet, who wrote about the middle of the 
seventeenth century, sighs out the following plaintive strain : 

'• Yet strew 
Upon my dismal grave 
Such offerings as you have. 

Forsaken cypresse and yew ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth." 

Alas for the unpoetic artificialities of modern innovation, which 
have preferred to rear the mighty mausoleum, in the stead of these 
modest and eloquent, though frails memorials of those once loved; 
as if, because the sculptured marble were a more enduring monu- 
ment, it could also embalm the memory of its sacred deposit with 
the fragrant incense of the flower's sweet breath. The magic 
lines of Shakspeare apply with singular force and appositeness, 
when he says, — 

" With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath." 



230 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Where is the heart, in its gushings of sorrow, that would not, 
as the unbidden tear bedews the sainted grave, yield to such spon- 
taneous offerings of affection, and bind an osier round the sod ; 
but "pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel," says 
the essayist to whom we have referred, "and becomes chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble." How varied the 
emotions excited by a visit to the rural cemetery ; the noisy tur- 
moil of busy life yields to the peaceful quiescence of the tomb, 
and we envy not the being whose sensibilities are so obture, as to 
induce in him an abiding preference for the former, without award- 
ing one passing tribute to the memory of the departed. Here are 
alone to be found a panacea for the many sorrows of human wo ; 
the mother's anguished bosom no longer yearns for her lost idol, 
and all the hallowed love of kindred, once rifled and dissevered, 
have passed away in the common companionship of the tomb ; 
whUe even the " envy, malice, and uncharitableness " of those of 
sterner mould, are alike hushed in undisturbed harmony and rest. 
And around a sainted mother's grave what peculiar sanctity seems 
to hover, investing the hallowed ground with a sacredness and 
sublimity that irresistibly excite emotions of grateful veneration, 
compared with which the gorgeous paraphernalia attendant on the 
funeral obsequies of an Alexander fall upon the heart with sick- 
ening disgust. The funeral car of the deceased Emperor, sustained 
a vaulted golden room, eight cubits in width, and twelve in length ; 
the dome was decorated with rubies, carbuncles and emeralds, and 
embellished by four historical paintings. Above the chamber, 
between its ceiling and the roof, the space was occupied by a 
quadrangular th^;one of gold, ornamented with figures in relief, to 
which golden rings were appended, bearing garlands of flowers 
that were daily renewed. Above the whole was a golden crown, 
of such huge dimensions that a tall man could stand upright within 
it ; and when the sun's rays fell on it, it shone with inconceivable 
splendor. In the chamber lay the lifeless body of Alexander, em- 
balmed in aromatics, and enshrined in a coffin of massive gold. 



CITATIONS FROM THK CEMETERIES. 231 



A similar feeding of reverence is awakened as we find ourselves 
surrounded by the tombs of the mighty dead — the great men of 
past ages — as for instance, the Poet's Corner of Westminster 
Abbey. And alas 1 what a humiliating lesson is here taught the 
eager votaries of human ambition ; with the exceptions of Slialcs- 
pcare and Addison, scarcely any of the memorials of the great 
founders of our vernacular literature, exceed the sunple records of 
their names, and the duration of their mortal sojourn on the earth. 
Yet simple as such mementoes are, they appeal more eloquently to 
the heart than any other, they awaken a deeper sympathy between 
the living and the dead. This is especially true with respect to 
the author. We read his history in his works, and fancy almost 
we share a personal acquaintance with him still. 

"Our cathedrals and old churches," writes Willmott, "grey 
with the rust of centuries, speak to the heart through the eye. 
Death is never unlovely, but meets us with the Gospel upon his 
lips, and the garland of hope upon his forehead. Addison might 
well delight to pass an afternooon among the tombs of Westmin- 
ster Abbey. The truest and most cheering eloquence speaks from 
the grave of piety. The white marble monument of William of 
Wykeham, is a livelier exhortation to Chi-istian benevolence than 
a philosophic treatise upon generosity. If we delight to keep 
green the graves of our poets, who have beguiled with their music 
the sorrows of life, our feelings become enlivened by purer eleva- 
tion, when lingering by the sepulchres of those who have minis- 
tered to us of the oracles of heavenly wisdom. We call to mind 
their hallowed example of holy living — their illuminated wisdom, 
their chastened temper, and their serene and happy exit from a 
life of sorrow and self-denial, which was to them " a baptism unto 
immortality." 

The first place of worship in the Acropolis of Athens was the 
sepulchre of Cecrops. It may be fairly inferred, that the tombs 
of the Athenians were the origin of their temples. The epitaph of 
Virgil, said to have been the product of his own pen, is as follows: 



232 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" Mantua me genuit : Calabri rapuere : tenet nunc 
Parthenope : cecini pascua, rura, duces." 

For its brevity, this epitaph may be regarded as a fair specimen 
of the Grecian standard of excellence in this species of writing. 
It may be rendered — " I sang flocks, tillage, heroes ; Mantua 
gave me life ; Brundusium death, Naples a grave." One of the 
most ancient Greek inscriptions, erected over the vi^arriors at the 
battle of Potidaea, (432 B. C.,) is still in existence, although in a 
mutilated state, being among the Elgin Marbles at the British 
Museum. 

Prior to the introduction of the Christian religion into Britain, 
(A. D. 600,) the Pagans possessed no religious edifices, as the 
massive Dridical remains on Salisbury Plain even to this day bear 
testimony. We are indebted to the monks for the establishment 
of the numerous monasteries which, in after times, studded the land; 
and which originated our more modern churches. The term minster 
is a corruption from monastery, and originally designated a secret 
place for prayer. In England, churchyards for burial are not of 
earlier date than the year 850 ; and it appears that burial in 
churches and chapels were unknown till the fifteenth century. 
The places of inhumation, according to the Roman law, were 
universally excluded from the precincts of their cities. 

Epitaphs were not in vogue in England till the reign of James I. ; 
his mother, the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, often amused 
herself when at the French court in compiling this species of 
writing. Hearses erected in the church signified a candlestick fur- 
nished with different lights, and erected at the head of the ceno- 
taph. They were called in the time of Edward III. castro doloris. 
Moveable hearses were earlier in use : the name, as applied to 
the vehicle containing the corpse, was adopted in the reign of 
William and Mary. 

" During the middle ages in England," says Sir Kenelm Digby, 
" there were no monuments of decoration, corresponding with the 
heathen philosophy ; if at the funerals of great nobles or kings, 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 233 



there was a more magnificent. pageant, it was always ecclesiastical, 
always monastic — never secular or military." Yet we find the fol- 
lowing brief account of Oliver Cromwell's funeral in Westminster 
Abbey, which was attended with great pomp, and which is but 
little reconcilable to republican notions : " the walls were hung 
with two hundred and forty escutcheons ; * the splendid sorrows 
that did adorn the hearse ' were twenty-six large embossed shields 
and twenty-four smaller with crowns ; sixty badges with his crest ; 
thirty-six scrolls, with mottoes ; his effigy, carved and superbly 
arrayed ; a velvet pall which contained eighty yards." Not long 
after this event, his grave was rifled with ruthless desecration by 
the royalists, his body hung in chains, and his head " exposed to 
the peltings of the pitiless storm" for twenty years ! How 
humiliating the transition : the outrage was, however, but a reflex 
of the tyrannical spirit of the age. In early times, in England, a 
custom prevailed of arraying the deceased in the most costly and 
sumptuous ornaments they once possessed ; but how infinitely more 
touching and true to nature are the rural simplicities of an English 
country funeral, in its demonstrations of grief. We shall now 
present a few specimens of early monumental inscriptions. 

Gough, in his " Sepulchral Monuments," gives the following 
curious and early specimen. It is dated 1420, in St. Peter's 
Church, at St. Albans: 

" In ye yere of Christ on thousand and four hundryd full trew with four 

and sixtene 
I, Richard Skipwithe, gentylman in birthe, late fellow of New Inne, 
In my age twenti, on my soul partyed from the bodee in August an 

16th day, 
And now I ly her abyding God's mercy under this stone in clay, 
Dcsyring you that this sal see unto the meyden pray for mee, 
Like as you wold that other for ye shold." 

In St. Martin's Church, London, the following ingenious com- 
position is inscribed to the memory of a sou of mortality, yclept 
Florens Caldwell, 1590 : 



234 



SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Earth goes to 
Earth treads on 
Earth as to 
Earth shall be 

Earth upon 
Earth goes to 
Earth though on 
Earth shall from 



fAs mould to mould, 
Glittering in gold, 
Return ne'er should, 
Goe where he would. 



Earth, < 



' Consider may. 
Naked away. 
Be stout and gay. 
Passe poore away. 



" Be merciful and charitable. 
Relieve the poore as thou art able ; 
A shroud to thy grave 
Is all that thou shalt have !" 

Another relic of this species of writing, on an old monument 
in St. Ann and St. Agnes', London, is equally ingenious, and much 
more laconic and excellent : 



" Qu an tris di c vul stra 

OS guis ti ro um nere vit" 
H san chris mi t mu la 

In this distich the last syllable of each word in the upper line is 
the same as that of each corresponding word in the last line, and 
is to be found in the centre. It reads thus : 

Quos anguis tristi diro cum vulnere stravit 
Hos sanguis christi miro turn munere lavit. 

Translated thus : 

Those who have felt the serpent's venom'd wound 
In Christ's miraculous blood have healing found. 

We meet with many like the preceding, that are admirable in 
their religious sentiment, but a large majority of the epitaphs, 
prior and immediately subsequent to the Reformation, are worse 
than Contemptible. Among the attempts at the facetious, take 
the following : 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 235 



ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 

" Here lies John, Duke of Marlborough, 
Who run the French through and through ; 
He married Sarah Jennings, spinster, 
Died at Windsor, and was buried at Westminster." 

In St. Bennet's, Paul's Wharf, Londou : — 

" Here lies one More, and no more than he. 
One More, and no More ! how can that be .' 
Why one More, and no more, may well lie here alone ; 
But here lies one More, and that's more than one !" 

FROM BROOM CHURCHYARD, ENGLAND. 

" God be praised ! 
Here is Mr. DUDLEY, senior, 

And Jane, his wife, also. 
Who', whilst living, was his superior : 

But see wliat Death can do. 
Two of his sons also lie here. 

One Walter, t'other Joe : 
They all of them went in the year 1510 below." 

In St. Michael's Churchyard, Aberystwith, is another to the 
memory of David Davies, Blacksmith : 

•* My Sledge and Hammer lay reclined, 
My Bellows, too, have lost their wind, 
My Fire's extinct, my Forge decayed, 
And in the dust my vice is laid ; 
My coal is spent, my Iron gone. 
My Nails are drove — my work is done." 

The following epitaph is transcribed from one of the local his- 
tories of Cornwall : — 

" Father and Mother and I 
Lies buried here as under : 
Father and Mother lies buried here, 
And I lies buried yonder." 



236 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



FROM CUNWALLOW CHURCHYARD, CORNWALL. 

[It may be read either backwards or forwards.] 

" Shall we all die ? 
We shall die all, 
All die shall we — 
Die all we shall." 

In St. Germain's, in the Isle of Man, the following very singu- 
lar epitaph is yet to be seen, in Latinj over the tomb of Dr. Sam- 
uel Rutter, formerly prebendary of Litchfield, and afterwards 
Bishop of Sodor and Man : 

" In this house 

which I have borrowed from 

my brethren the worms, 

lie I, 

Samuel, by Divine permission, 

Bishop of this island. 

Stop, reader ; 
behold, and smile at 

THE PALACE OF A BISHOP ! 

who died May 30, 
in the year 
1653." 

An Hibernian epitaph reads as follows — it is taken from the 
old churchyard at Beltm-bet, Ireland : — 

" Here lies John Higley, whose father and mother were 

drowned in their passage from America. 
Had they both lived, they would have been buried here !" 

In St. Michael's churchyard. Crooked lane, London, is the fol- 
lowing laconic record : 

" Here Heth, wrapped in clay. 
The body of William Wray ;— 
I have no more to say !" 

The following admonitory voice from a tomb in Thetford church- 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 231 



yard, Norfolk, will at least be perused with interest by the advo- 
cates of the temperance cause : 

" My grandfather lies buried here, 
My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear ; 
My father perished with an inflammation in his eyes. 
My sister dropt down dead in the Minories : 
But the reason why I'm here interred, according to my thinking, 
Is owing to my good living and hard drinking ! 
Therefore, good people, if you wish to live long, 
Don't drink too much wine, brandy, gin, or anything strong." 

With two or three additional specimens of the facetious, we will 
gladly turn to something exhibiting a graver and better taste. In 
Selby churchyard, York, is the following attempt at the ludicrous, 
in memory of one JMRles : 

" This tombstone is a Milestone, hah, how so ? 
Because, beneath lies Miles, who's Miles below." 

Here we have another from the Emerald isle ; mysteriously 
calculated to suppress all inquisitiveness as to the departed. 

" Here lies Pat Steele . — 
That's very thrue : — 
Who was he ? what was he ? 
What's that to you ?" 

Over the grave where Shakspeare's dust reposes, is inscribed the 
following well-known quaint abjuration : 

" Good Friend, For Jesvs' Sake Forbeare 
To Digg the Dvst Enclosed here : 
Blest Be ye Man yt Spares These Stones, 
And Cursed Be Him yt Moves My Bones." 

We quote another antique specunen, on a tombstone in the 
same churchyard (Stratford) : 



238 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" Death creeps abought on hard. 
And steals abroad on seen, 
Hur darts are suding, and her arrows keen, 
Hur strocks are deadly, com they soon or late, 
* When being struck repentance is too late. 

Death is a minut, full of suding sorrow, 
Then live to day, as thou may'st dy to morrow. 
Anno Domony 1690." 

In Handon churchyard, Middlesex, the following inscription to 
the memory of a certain member of the medical fraternity, who 
seems at least not to have been indifferent to the good things of 
life, however great his penchant for drugs : 

" ON THOMAS CROSSFIELD, M. D. 

" Beneath this stone, Tom Crossfield lies, 
Who cares not now who laughs or cries ; 
He laughed when sober, and when mellow. 
Was a harum-scarum harmless fellow : 
He gave to none designed oflFence, 
So — 'Honi soit qui mal y pense ' (!)" 

The subjoined is copied from an old churchyard at Llanfllantw- 
thyl, Wales : 

" Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan, 
Who blew the bellows of our church organ ; 
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling. 
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling ; 
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast, 
Though he made our old organ give many a blast. 
No puffer was he, though a capital blower. 
He could fill double G, and now lies a note lower." 

Byron wrote the following epitaph on John Adams, of South- 
well, a carrier, who died of drunkenness : 

" John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A carrier who carried the can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
He could carry no more — so was carried at last; 
For the liquor he drank being too much for one. 
He could not carry ofiF, so he's now carri-on." 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 239 



We close our comic selections with the following brief and pithy 
epitaphs on- Drs. Walker and Fuller ; the former, it will be remem- 
bered, wrote a work on " English Particles." That to his me- 
mory is : 

" Here lie Walker's Particles." 

And the other reads as folio weth : — 

" Here lies Fuller's earth." 

In the churchyard of St. Anne, Soho, London, is the following 
curious epitaph on Theodore, King of Corsica ; it is from the pen 
of Horace Walpole: " Near this place is interred Theodore, King 
of Corsica, who died in this parish, Dec. 11, 1756 ; immediately 
after leaving the King's Bench prison, by the benefits of the act 
of Insolvency ; in consequence he registered his kingdom of Cor- 
sica for the use of his creditors. 

" The Grave, great teacher, to a level brings 
Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings ; 
But Theodore this moral learned, ere dead ; 
Fate poured its lessons on his living head, 
Bestowed a kingdom, and denied him bread." 

The following is the chronicle of an extraordinary character: 

" Beneath this stone in sound repose. 
Lies William Rich, of Lydeard close ; 
Eight wives he had, yet none survive. 
And likewise children eight times five ; 

Of great grand-children five times four, 
Rich born, rich bred, yet fate adverse. 
His wealth and fortune did reverse ; — 

He lived and died immensely poor, 

July the tenth, aged nine-four !" 

Tlie following is the well-known inscription on the grave-stone 
of Matthew Proir, written by himself : 



240 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" Painters and heralds, by your leave, 
Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior : 
The son of Adam and of Eve ; — 
Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher !" 



Garrick's epitaph on Quin, in the Abbey Church, at Bath, has 
been copied oftener than it has been exceeded. We know of 
very few entitled to rank in a higher class : — 

" The tongue which set the table in a roar, 

And charmed the public ear, is heard no more : 

Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit. 

Which spake before the tongue, what Shakspeare writ. 

Cold is that hand, which ever was stretched forth. 

At friendship's call, to succor modest worth. 

Here lies James Quin ! — Deign, reader, to be taught, 

Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought ; 

In Nature's happiest mould, however cast. 

To this complexion thou must come at last !" 

The one on William Hogarth, in Chiswick churchyard, by Gar 
rick, is in excellent taste : 

" Farewell, great painter of mankind, 

Who reach'd the noblest point of art ; 
Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind. 

And through the eye correct the heart ! 
If genius fire thee, reader, stay ; 

If nature touch thee, drop a tear : — 
If neither move thee, turn away, 

For Hogarth's honor'd dust lies here.' 

Some distinguished men have amused themselves, while living, 
by inditing epitaphs for themselves. Franklin, and the great law- 
yer and orientalist. Sir William Jones, have left characteristic 
performances of this kind in prose. 

Turn we to the silent sleeping place of " good old Izaak Wal- 
ton" — the author of one of the damtiest and pleasantest of 
books — the Complete Angler. It is a book to be enjoyed on the 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 241 



river's bank, amid luxuriant scenery, such as lie describes, with the 
melodious ditties of birds overhead, and bright skies bending over, 
and gilding the limped waters beside him. In Silkstede's chapel, 
situated on the banks of the beautiful Ichen, near the venerable 
city of Winchester, may be seen the grave of this worthy old 
angler ; it is indicated by a blue stone, with the following lines 
traced upon it : 

" Here restetli the body of 

SIR. IZAAK WALTON 

who died on the 15th of December, 1683. 

" Alas ! he 's gone before ; 
Gone to return no more. 
Our panting breasts aspire 
After their aged sire, 
Whose well-spent life did last 
Full many years and past ; 
And now he hath begun 
That which will ne'er be done : 
Crowned with eternal bliss. 
We wish our souls with his. 

VOTIS MODESTIS SIC FLERUNT LIBERI." 

Writing of the cremation of Shelley's body on the sea-shore, 
B3Ton says, you can have no idea what an extraordinary effect 
such a funeral pile has on a desolate shore, with mountains in the 
back ground and the sea before, and the singular appearance the 
salt and frankincense gave to the flame. All of Shelley was con- 
sumed, except his limrt, which would not take the flame, and is 
now preserved in spirits of wine. 

The Turks designate the grounds appropriated for the remains 
of the dead, by the expressive term, " Citi<^ of Silence,'''' — a name, 
which, we learn by oriental travelers, acquires additional force 
from the vast extent of ground marked by these monumental 
stones, before he arrives at the abodes of the living. The eloquent 
author of " Anastatius" refers to their curious usages of interment 

11 



242 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



at the larger Moslem cemeteries of Coustantinople and Scutari, 
caused by the dislike of the Turks to re-open the ground where it 
is known a corpse has already been deposited. The splendid 
mosque, called that of Suleiman, at Constantinople, was erected by 
that monarch as a memorial of the grief experienced for the death 
of his eldest son, Muhammed. The coffin containing the remains 
of this prince lies by the side of that of the Sultan Selim, on 
whose tomb is the proud epitaph — " On this day Sultan Selim 
passed to an eternal kingdom, leaving the empire of the world to 
Suleiman." The tombs of other Sultans are also attached to the 
various mosques which they constructed or embellished. We shall 
not stay to describe these tombs, but* simply remark, that the slabs 
by which the graves are usually denoted, are perforated with holes, 
through which beautiful flowers grow and diffuse their fragrance 
and their leaves around. The grounds are thickly planted with 
trees, which afford a grateful shade ; and were it not for the gro- 
tesque turbaned headstones, the effect would inspire deep solem- 
nity. The Tui'kish females are accustomed to visit the last resting 
places of their deceased friends on Fridays, on which day they have 
a conceit that they return to a consciousness of their severed ties. 
It is curious to observe that the Turks never use a coffin in their 
burials ; indeed much of the distinctive character, or prejudices, of 
various nations may be gathered from their funeral customs. In 
the East Indies, previously to consigning their dead to the grave, 
they dry the corpse by fire : elsewhere they have been disposed of 
by the more summary process of a watery grave, or been given a 
prey to wild beasts or vultures. 

In Cartmell churchyard, Westmoreland, there is a neat tomb- 
stone to the memory of Mr. John Fell, who had been for many 
years an active surveyor of the turnpike roads from Kirby Ken- 
dal to Kirby Irleth. Upon the stone are the following appropri- 
ate lines : — 

" Reader, doth he not merit well thy praise, 
Whose practice was through life to mend his ivays .'" 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 243 



The following remarkable epitaph, at the entrance of the church 
of San Salvador, in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, erected by a 
prince named Silo, with a very curious Latin inscription, may be 
read two hundred and seventy ways, by beginning with the capital 
S in the centre. 

Silo Princeps Fecit, 
ticefspecncepsfecit 
icepspecnincepsfeci 
cefspecnirincepsfec 
efspecnirprincepsfe 
fspecnirpoprincepsf 
specnirpoloprinceps 
pecnirpoliloprincep 
ecnirpolis iloprince 
pecnirpoliloprinc e p 
specnirpoloprinceps 
fspecnirpoprincepsf 
efspecnirprincepsfe 
cefspecnirincepsfec 
icefspecnincepsfeci 

riCEFSPECNCEPSFECIT 

On the tomb are inscribed these letters : 

H. S. E. S. S. T. T. L. 

Which are the initials of the following Latin words : 

Hie Situs est Silo, sit tibi terra levis. 

[In English.] 

" Here lies Silo. May the earth lay light on him." 

The epitaph of Michael Drayton, another of the Elizabethan 
poets, said by some to be the composition of Ben Jonson, and 
by others to be by Quarles, has also a species of quaint beauty 
and solemnity which raises it above the ordinary level. It was 
originally in gilt letters : 



244 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



" Michael Draiton, Esq. 
A memorable poet of this age, 
. Exchanged his laurell for a crowne of glorye, 
A°. 1631. 

Doe, pious Marble ! let thy readers knowe 

What they and what their children owe 

To Draiton's name, whose sacred dust 

We recommend unto thy trust : 
Protect his memory, and preserve his storye, 
Remaine a lasting monument of his glorye ; 

And when thy mines shall disclaime 

To be the treasu'rer of his name, 

His name that cannot fade shall be 

An everlasting monument to thee." 

Here is a beautiful inscription in the English burying-ground 
at Bourdeaux. 

" There was a sweet and nameless grace. 
That wander'd o'er her lovely face ; 
And from her pensive eye of blue. 
Was magic in the glance which flew. 
Her hair of soft and gloomy shade. 
In rich luxuriance curling stray'd ; 
But when she spoke, or when she sung, 
Enchantment on her accents hung. 
Where is she now .' — where all must be — 
Sunk in the grave's obscurity. 
Yet never — never slumber'd there 
A mind more pure — a form more fair !" 

The great Cemetery of Pere la Chaise, was consecrated as a 
public place of sepulture in 1804 : it derived its present name from 
the favorite confessor to Louis XIY., and Madame de Maintenon. 
Within its boundaries formerly stood an establishment belonging 
to the Jesuits, called the " Maison de Mont Louis,^^ subsequently, 
in 1163, on the suppression of the order, the estate was sold, and 
passing into the hands of the public authorities, it became applied 
to its present purpose. This cemetery occupies an area of one 



CITATIONS FKOXr THE CEMETKRIES. 245 



hundred acres ; it is laid out in picturesque style ; its beautiful, 
rich foliage, and funereal flowers, have an eflfect solemn and deeply- 
imposing, intersected as they are, by its variegated monumental 
structures ; albeit there are to be seen many painful indications 
of the mummeries of monkish affectation, and no lack of the silly 
vanities, and far-fetched conceits which alike disfigure most of the 
burial-grounds elsewhere. 

The chapel, in which funeral ceremonies are performed, is about 
sixty feet in height ; it is chaste and imposing in its architectural 
proportions, and is lighted within by a window in the centre of the 
roof. Of the numer'^us interesting tombs which decorate these 
grounds, we can only mention a few. That of Abelard and 
Heloise represents a Gothic chapel of much beauty. 

A large monument has been here erected to the memory of the 
French poet, De Lille, another to the chemist Foucroy, Madame 
Cottin, the authoress. La Fontaine, Moliere, Joseph Bonaparte, 
Sonnini, the naturalist, St. Pierre, Langes, the Orientalist, Laplace, 
Cuvier, Denon, Volney, Talma, Haiiy, Madame Dufresnoy (cfJled 
the tenth Muse), and Madame Blanchard, who perished in 1819, 
by her balloon taking fire. The tomb of the unfortunate Madame 
Blanchard is surmounted by a globe in flames. On that of La 
Fontaine sits very composedly a black fox, while two has reliefs in 
bronze represent, one his fable of the Wolf and Stork, and the 
other, that of the Wolf and the Lamb. Le Fevre has a magnifi- 
cent sarcophagus, where two figures of Fame are crowning his 
bust, and a serpent, the emblem of immortality, encircling his 
sword ; while Ney, " the bravest of the brave," sleeps unmarked, 
save by a single cypress. 

Some of the humbler memorials more than compensate for the 
absence of splendor, by their touching simplicity ; take the follow- 
ing specimens : — "Pauvre Marie .' a 29 ans." — "A ma Mere." — 
" A man P ere." The reader must pardon the sudden transition, 
but we have another of a totally different character, which we may 
consider, for want of a better term, the Epitaph prudential ; it may 



246 



SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



1 



be rendered thus :— " Here lies N., the best of fathers, the most 
tender of husbands ; his disconsolate widow still keeps tJie fancy shop, 
Rue Richelieu, No. — .' " And, as a set-off to the above, please 
take the annexed, from the same cemetery : — 

" Ci git ma femme ; c'est bien, 
Poui" son repose, et le mien !" 

Much might be written respecting the tombs which are so 
thickly clustered within the vaulted aisles of Westminster Abbey, 
and beneath the vast dome of the great metropolitan Cathedral 
of London. On entering the Abbey at tne south-east transept, 




called " Poets' Corner," the mind becomes overwhelmed with the 
stately grandeur and mournful magnificence of the "solemn tem- 
ple ;" its lofty, gilded roof, its gloomy cloisters, and 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 24' 



Storied windows richly dight, 
CastJDg .a dim religious light," 



at once fill the mind with a soleuni reverence and awe; as you 
find yourself surrounded with the sainted effigies of the mighty 
dead. The monument, to the memory of Spencer, originally 
erected by Anne, Countess of Dorset, and having fallen into decay, 
was restored, in IT 68, precisely in its old form : 

" Ileare lyes (expecting the second 
Comniinge of our Saviour Christ 
Jesus) the body of EJmond Spencer, 
The Prince of Poets in his tyme, 
Whose divine spirit needs noe 
Other witnesse than the works 
Which he left behind him. 
He was borne in London, in the yeare 1553, 
And died in tlie year 1598." 

Chaucer was buried in the cloisters of Westminister Abbey, 
without the building, but removed to the south aisle in 1555; 
Spencer lies near him. Beaumont, Drayton, Cowley, Denham, 
Dryden, Rowe, Addison, Prior, Congreve, Gay, Jonson, Sheri- 
dan, and Campbell, all lie within Westminster Abbey. Shaks- 
peare, as every one knows, was buried in the chancel of the ciiurch 
at Stratford, where there is a monument to his memory. Chap 
man and Shirley are buried at St. Giles' in the Fields; Marlowe, 
in the church-yard of St. Paul's Deptford; Fletcher and Massin- 
ger, in the church-yard of St. Saviour's, Southwark ; Dr. Donne, 
in Old St. Paul's; Edward Waller, in Beaconfield church-yard; 
Milton, in the church-yard of St. Giles', Cripplegate; Butler, in 
the church-yard of St. Paul's Covent Garden; Otway, no one 
knows where; Garth, in the church-yard at Harrow; Pope, in 
the church at Twickenham; Swift, in St. Patrick's, Dublin; 
Savage in the church-yard of St. Peter's, Dublin; Parnell, at 
Chester, where he died on his way to Dublin; Dr. Young, at 
Walwyn, in Hertfordshire, of which place he was the rector; 



248 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Thomson, in the churcli-yard at Richmond, in Surrey; Collins, 
in St. Andrew's Church, at Chichester; Gray, in the church-yard 
at Stoke-Pogis, where he conceived his Elegy ; Goldsmith, in the 
church-yard of the Temple Church; Falconer, at sea, with "all 
ocean for his grave ;" Churchill, in the church-yard of St. Mar- 
tin's, Dover; Cowper, in the church at Dereham; Chatterton, in 
a church-yard belonging to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn; 
Burns, in St. Michael's church-yard, Dumfries; Ayron, in the 
church at Hucknall, near Newstead; Crabbe, at Trowbridge; 
Coleridge, in the church at Highgate ; Sir Walter Scott in Dry- 
burgh Abbey; Southey, in Crosthwaite church, near Keswich. 

Passing over the rude figures of abbots in the cloisters, coeval 
with the time of William of Normandy, we come to St. Edward's 
Chapel, which is full of very ancient remains; the shrine of King 
Edward stands nearly iu the centre. In the same chapel, a huge 
marble cofi&n containing the body of Edward, remarkable as hav- 
ing been opened in 1774, by a deputation of the Society of Anti- 
quarians, -when the body was found in a state of complete preser- 
vation, having on two robes, one of gold and silver tissue, the 
other of crimson velvet, a sceptre in each hand, a crown on his 
head, and many jewels still quite bright. 

But w^e must not linger over the numerous ancient relics with 
which every niche of this vast abbey, and its several chapelries, are 
so rife. The Poets' Corner is indebted for its renown, less to the 
sculptor's skill, than the great names to whose memory it has 
sought to do homage. Pope, although he contributed more epi- 
taphs, than- any besides, for others, has no memorial here of his 
own. It is true he did not always confer these mournful tributes 
without due consideration for his poetic skill. We remember one 
instance in which he received twenty guineas for his effusion — a 
very laconic one, moreover, since it did not exceed as many words, 
although in this consisted its singular merits. It is as follows : 

" She was, — but words are wanting to say what ; 
Think what a wife should be, and she was that !" 



CITATION'S FROM THE CEMETERIES. 249 



Pope was fond of writing epitaphs. The most valuable is con- 
sidered to be that on Mrs. Corbet. It is in the north aisle of the 
parish church of St. Margaret, Westminster : — ■ 

" Here rests a woman, good without pretence, 
Blest with plain reason and with sober sonse ; 
No conquest she, but o'er herself desired ; 
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired. 
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, 
Convinced that virtue only is our own. 
So unaffected, so composed a mind, 
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined, 
Heaven, as its purest gold by tortures tried ; 
The saint sustained it, but the woman died." 

The character and most prominent discoveries of Sir Isaac New- 
ton are summed up in his epitaph, of which we give a translation : 

" Here lies interred Isaac Newton, knight, who, with an energy 
of mind almost divine, guided by the light of mathematics purely 
his own, first demonstrated the motions and figures of the planets, 
the paths of comets, and the causes of the tides; who discovered, 
what before his time no one had ever suspected, that the rays of 
light are differently refrangible, and that this is the cause of col- 
ors; and who was a diligent, penetrating, and faithful interpreter 
of nature, antiquity, and the sacred writings. In his philosophy, 
he maintained the majesty of the Supreme Being; in his manners 
he expressed the simplicity of the Gospel. Let mortals congrat- 
ulate themselves that the world has seen so great and excellent a 
man, the glory of human nature." 

Brief monumental inscriptions are, after all, the most eloquent. 
What can exceed that of Sir Christojiher Wren, in St. Paul's 
Cathedral, of which he was the well known architect : 

" Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice !" 
and we might add that to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton : 

" Isaacum Newton quem immortalem Testantur tempus, natura, coelum, 
mortalem hoc marmor Fatetur ! " 



250 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



One of the simplest epitaphs to be met with, perhaps, is that 
of Pope Adrian, said to have beeu written by himself : — 

" Adrianus, Papa VI., hie situs est, que nihil sibi 
Infelicius in vita, quam quod imperaret duxit." 

And then, again, that higenius and striking inscription, at Cracow, 
on Copernicus, in which the very words of Scripture, which were 
used as a pretext for the persecution of the great truth he dis- 
covered, are employed for his epitaph : — 

" Sta, sol, ne moveare." 

Luther's last resting-place is marked by a plain marble slab, at 
Wirtemburg, bearing, simply, his name in Latin, with the date of 
his birth and death : also that memorialising that great hero 
of three revolutions — Lafayette. 

Rural funerals in England are indicative of many provincial 
characteristics : yet they are, for the most part, calculated, 
from their combination of simplicity and seriousness, to stir the 
heart. The Scotch discover less of deep feeling, while the Irish 
evince this to a greater extent ; their funeral processions being 
composed of a long retinue of men, women, and even children, 
clad in their rude yet variedly picturesque garbs; their stopping at 
cross-roads, and muttering of prayers, in their deep, slow, and 
modulated chant, known as the Irish cry, or ulidu, strike the be- 
holder as something remarkably imposing and effecting. In "the 
world of London," it is, of course, far different, where an individ- 
ual may die without scarcely his next door neighbor being aware 
of the fact ; the usual indication is given by the mutes, with their 
muffled standards at the door. If there is less of real feeling ex- 
hibited, there is more of solemn pomp and parade : for instance, a 
pall is generally borne before the hearse, garnished with nodding 
plumes, which also deck the hearse itself, and the horses, which 
are always of a jet black ; while the mourners are enveloped in 
sable cloaks, scarfs, and hat-bands. 



CITATION'S FROM T H F, CEMETERIES. 251 



The cemetery at Stoke Newingtoii acquires peculiar interest, 
from the cu'cumstance of its having been formed in Abney Park, 
where Dr. Watts so frequently strolled during his long residence 
at the hospitable mansion of Sir Thomas Al)ney. The west of 
London, and Westminster cemetery, differs from all the modern 
burial places around the metropolis. The grounds are very beau- 
tifully laid out in the Italian style : its chapel, monuments, and 
other buildings, are very imposing. The enclosure, in the neighbor- 
hood of Highgate, is the North London Cemetery. Its leading 
feature is a small abbey-like building, with an octangular and or- 
namental dome. A beautiful window of painted glass, represent- 
ing the ascension of our Saviour, adorns its extremity. Column, 
pyramid, sarcophagus, tomb, vase, and sculptured stone, arrest the 
eye, while a gigantic mound is seen canopied with a goodly cedar; 
and the beautiful Gothic church crowning the brow of the hill, 
with its heaven-directed spire, peers above the upper verge of this 
sainted place of graves. Beauty and death appear, in this lovely 
spot, to have entered into a compact together ; for, while the lat- 
ter delves freely beneath the soil, the former reigns in undisputed 
possession of its surface. Art has done much, but nature scarcely 
less to render this place of sepultm-e beautiful. Flowers bloom in 
luxuriant profusion, while the mountain ash, the laburnum, syca- 
more, acacia, laurel, and rose-tree, all minister to the enchantment 
of the scene. 

In musing over these memorials of the departed, the mind is 
intuitively impressed with the consciousness of our own mortaUty, 
coupled with the heart-inspiring hope of that day when the sleep- 
ing dead shall be restored, and our disunited atoms once more 
assume their wonted form and comeliness. Yes — 

" God formed them from the dust, and He once more 
Will give them strength and beauty as before, 
Though strewn as widely as the desert air, 
As winds can waft them, or the waters bear." 

The grave of the " Dau-yman's Daughter," in the old church- 



252 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



yard of the hamlet of Arreton, Isle of Wight, has become endeared 
to the Christian heart by the magic pen of Legh Richmond. We 
visited the hallowed spot some years ago. The churchyard and 
parsonage are approached by one of the most enchanting rural 
lanes the fancy could conceive. The venerable church is five cen- 
turies old. The grave is indicated by a plain mai-ble slab, with 
the following inscription: 

"to the memory of 
ELIZABETH WALLBRIDGE, 

' THE DAIRYJIAn's DAUGHTER,' 

Who died, May 30, 1801, aged 31 years. 

• She being dead, yet speaketh.' 

Stranger, if e'er by chance or feeling led. 
Upon this hallowed turf thy footsteps tread. 
Turn from the contemplation of this sod. 
And think of her whose spirit rests with God. 
Lowly her lot on earth ; but He, who bore 
Tidings of grace and blessings to the poor, 
Gave her, His truth and faithfulness to prove, 
The choicest pleasures of His boundless love — 
Faith, that dispell'd affliction's darkest gloom, 
Hope, that could cheer the passage to the tomb 
Peace, that not Hell's dark legions could destroy 
And, love, that filled the soul with heavenly joy. 
Death of its sting disarmed, she knew no fear, 
But tasted heaven e'en while she linger'd here. 
Oh ! happy saint, may we, like thee, be blest — 
In life be faithful, and in death find rest." 

This is the sainted shrine of one whose touching life story has 
been read in almost every language, in the palace and the cottage, 
shedding the fragrance of a holy religion on the hearts of thou- 
sands, and been the means of inciting others to emulate the pos- 
session of "a like precious faith." 

Bunhill Fields, once known as the Artillery Grounds, in the 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 253 



City Road, was first leased by the City of London, in 1665, to Dr. 
Tindall, who converted the grounds into a cemetery for the Dis- 
senters. It is in the vicinity of the celebrated chapel, called the 
Tabernacle of good old Whitfield, the largest in the metropolis, and 
it contains an almost incalculable number of bodies ; some who 
repose in its hallowed precincts, will always impart to it the most 
interesting and endearing associations. There sleep all that was 
mortal of John Bunyan,* Dr. Watts, Howe, Bates, and Owen, 
with others of scarcely less enduring fame. 

On a square marble monument, which covers the mortal remains 
of the world-renowned Christian poet, is the following inscription : 

"lS.\AC WATTS, D. D. 
November 25, 1748, Aet. 75. 
Ii^ uno Jesu Omnia." 

How many pilgrim feet have turned towards this last resting- 
place of the gifted and the good. 

A few words now respecting our own cemeteries. At Quincy, 
Massachusetts, is one of the earliest epitaphs of New England. 
It is inscribed to the memory of a distinguished clergygman of 
the olden time, Moses Fiske, who died August 10, 1808. 

" Braintree, thj' prophet's gone, this tomb inters 
The Rev. Moses Fiske his sacred hearse. 
Adore heaven's praiseful art, that formed the man, 
Who soules, not to himself, but Christ oft won : 
Sailed tlirough the straits witli Peter's family, 
Renowned, and Gains' hospitality, 
Paul's patience, James' prudence, John's sweet love — 
Is landed, entered, cleared, and crowned above !" 

In Roxbury churchyard, Massachusetts, wc find the following 



• Though there is nothing on the stone to mark it as a cenotaph, it is believed that 
Bunyan was not buried in Bunhill Fields, but this is said to be the only monument that 
was raised tj his memory, except that more imperishable one, his immortal work. 



254 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



quaint lines. They are inscribed to Thomas Dudley, a governor 
of the colony, who died 1653. tet. It. 

"THOMAS DUDLEY, 
Ah ! old must die. 
A Death's head on your hand, you need not weare, 
A dying head you on your shoulders beare. 
You neede not one to mind you, you must dye, 
You in your name may spell mortalitye. 
Younge men may dye, but old men these dye must : 
'Twill not be long before you turne to dust. 
Before you turne to dust ! ah ! must ! old ! dye ! 
What shall younge doe, when old in dust doe lye ? 
When old in dust lye, what New England doe ? 
When old in dust doe lye, its best dye too." 

At Trenton, New Jersey, there may be seen the following beau- 
tifully expressive lines, inscribed over the tomb of Mrs. Mary 
Dunbar, who died in 1808 : 

" The meed of merit ne'er shall die, 
Nor modest worth neglected lie. 
The fame that pious virtue gives. 
The Memphian monuments outlives. 
Reader, wouldst thou secure such praise, 
Go, learn Religion's pleasant ways." 

Another, equally touching, is sculptured on the grave-stone of 
the Rev. Daniel Little, who died at Kennebunk, in 1801. It is 
as follows : 

" Memento mori ! preached his ardent youth. 
Memento mori ! spoke maturer years ; 
Memento mori ! sighed his latest breath, 
Memento mori ! now this stone declares !" 

Elihu Yale, the founder of Yale College, at New Haven, Con- 
necticut, lies buried at the church in Wrexham, Wales. His 
monument, a plain altar tomb, bears this inscription : 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 255 



" Born in America, in Europe bred, 
In Afric traveled, and in Asia wed ; 
Where long he lived and thrived, in London dead. 
Much good, some ill, he did; so hope all's even, 
And that his soul through mercy's gone to Heaven. 
You that survive, and read this tale, take care, 
For this most certain exit to prepare. 
Where blest in peace the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the silent dust." 

In Concord, Massachusetts, there is the following remarkable 
antithetical inscription over one of the sable sons of Africa : 

" God wills us free ; man wills us slaves. I will as God wills, God's 
will be done ! Here lies the body of John Jack, a native of Africa, who 
died March, 1773, aged 60 years. Though born in a land of slavery, he 
was born free ; though he lived in a land of liberty, he lived a slave ; 
till by his honest, though stolen labors, he acquired the source of sla- 
very, which gave him his freedom, though not long before his death, the 
grand tyrant set him on a footing with kings. Though a slave to vice, 
he practised those virtues without which kings are but slaves." 

At Springfield, Massachusetts, is a tombstone to the memory 
of Mary, wife of Ebenezer Holyoke, who died in 165T, inscribed 
as follows : 

" She yt lyes here, was while she stood, 
A very glorie of womanhoode : 
Even here was sowne most pretious dust, 
Which surely shall rise with the just." 

The beautiful cemetery of Mount Auburn, occupying about 
twenty acres, presents the most picturesque alternations of hill 
and valley, whose labyrinthine sliades make it the very beau ideal 
of a place of sepulture. Here repose the ashes of many a sainted 
name; and here, too, may be found many a touching record of 
departed worth : Spurzheim's monument is the first that greets 
the eye of the visitor as he enters the enclosure. Laurel Hill 
Cemetery is to Philadelphia what Mount Auburn is to Boston: 



256 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



its natural and artificial beauties bid fair to rival even those of 
the first named. Godfrey, the inventor of the quadrant, has been 
brought to this necropolis, and a handsome monument erected 
over his remains. Commodore Hull, also reposes here. 

To the lovers of rural beauty, the sequestered shades of Green- 
wood have an indescribable fascination. The sad solemnity of its 
associations predisposes the mind for an appreciation of its exceed- 
ing lovehness. We pass from the city of the living into the city 
of the dead, as we would into another and a fairer world. Around 
us are still spires and towers and palaces, and humble homes, as in 
the thronged abodes of life, but oh, how silent ! and our lips are 
still, here, as if we felt the presence of their spirits who are sleep- 
ing about us ; their spirits, which in the beauty of the scene find 
fit changes for the margin of the river of life immortal. 

Standing at the eastern verge of this Necropolis, on Ocean Hill, 
where the pious Abeel sleeps under a column, in white simplicity 
reflecting his experience, we look off through Sycamore Grove, 
and Grassy Dell, and beyond Highland Avenue, to the elevation, 
where death won so many, long ago, in the battle of Brooklyn, 
and where now sleep, with their brothers of the revolutionary 
strife, the heroes who fell in Mexico — all their conflicts ended 
now, and they in the rest which would be eternal but for that last 
trumpet which shall startle all the armies to the grand and 
ultimate review. A more pleasing emotion is awakened as we 
pause, in that vicinity, by the obelisk which marks the grave of 
Dr. Forry ; or, not far from that, by the temple in which art has 
gathered her ministers to tell the mournful history of the sudden 
death of Miss Cauda, with whom her friends' best joy and hope 
went from the world ; or, near Sylvan Bluff, by the monument 
which the artist Catlin has reared over the gentle wife, who for 
seven years accompanied him on his wild and hazardous journeys 
in the wilderness, and finally died, some few years ago, in Paris. 
There are all conditions, all varieties, in death as in life, and the 
wanderer in Greenwood turns from the graves we have mentioned 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 257 



to that of the beautiful Indian, Do-hum-mc, who came to see the 
white man's palaces, with a delegation of her tribe, living beyond 
the prairies, and died here, a few years ago. It is down by the 
margin of Sylvan Lake, and close by it is the modest column 
erected to "poor MacDonald Clarke," in whose numbers, if there 
was " more of madness, and more of melancholy," there was also 
more of genius than glows in the works of some of greater genius. 
Barry Cornwall thus beautifully moralizes upon the brevity of 
life :— 

" We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 

We love ; we droop ; we die ! 
Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die ? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

AVhy doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ! 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil — through pain and wrong ; 

AVe fight— and fly ; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
life, is all thy song, 

' Endure and — die !' " 

The grave of our great Washington, at Mount Vernon, is the 
shrine which the national heart most venerates, yet it is allowed 
to suffer the spoliation of time. 

Jefferson lies in a church-yard at Monticello. The grave is 
marked by a granite obelisk, eight feet high, and on a piece of 
marble inserted in its southern face are inscribed the three acts for 
which he thought he best deserved to be remembered by posterity. 



258 SALAD FOE THE SOLITARY. 



The inscription was found among his papers after his death, in his 

own handwriting, and is in these words : 

" Here lies buried 

THOMAS JEFFERSON, 

Autlior of the Declaration of American Independence, 

Of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom, 

And Father of the University of Virginia. 

Madison sleeps in a country church-yard : so does Monroe ; so 
does John Quincy Adams. Jackson slumbers within the groves of 
the Hermitage, in the tomb erected by himself. General Taylor 
occupies an unpretending tomb in the public cemetery of Louisville. 
Aaron Bm-r's grave is at Princeton, New Jersey, but recently 
indicated by the erection of a monument. It is surrounded by the 
monuments of Jonathan Edwards, John Witherspoon, Ashbell 
Green, and other deceased officers of Princeton College, whereof 
Burr's father was once president. Calhoun's grave is in St. Phil- 
lip's church-yard, Charleston. 

It is worth while noting a few of the singularities of custom 
with regard to mourning for the deceased : in Europe as well as in 
our own country, black is, of course, considered the appropriate 
habiliment, as representing the eclipse of life, and the darkness of 
the tomb ; but in China white is used, as expressive of the belief 
that the dead are in heaven, the place of purity. In Egypt, 
again, the color is yellow, because it represents the decaying of 
trees and flowers, while blue is sometimes employed in Turkey, to 
denote the sky as the place of departed spirits, etc. The ancient 
Scandinavians celebrated the entrance into life with mourning, and 
the departure out of it with rejoicing : and even in Scotland, the 
bagpipe and dance were used formerly at the latter ; we find it 
recorded that a piper officiated thus in Perthshire, as late as 1736. 
Equally ingenious and curious have been the expedients employed 
by individuals to secure a lasting memorial, or to defy the ravages 
of time, in all ages ; from the embalming process of the Egyptians 
to the modern mode of preventing decomposition by the infusion 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 259 



of arsenic. Many remarkable things might also be cited, touching 
the eccentricities of men at, or previous to, their decease, respecting 
their frail tenement. 

At Dorking, in Surrey, we remember visiting the spot on tlie 
summit of Box-hill, where a certain mad captain of the British 
army, ordained by his will that he should be buried head down- 
wards, as his conceit was, that the world was crazy, or upside 
down, and when he expected to awake again, he thought his posi- 
tion would place him right. At Guy's Hospital, one of its attend- 
ant surgeons enjoined it upon his executors to have his body 
enclosed in a glass coffin, several inches thick, that the students 
might observe the gradual process of decomposition ; and the re- 
mains of the so-called prophet, Mahomet, are fabled to be poised 
in mid-ail*, between earth and heaven, suspended by a magnet : 
many other absurdities might be added, but it is needless ; they 
proclaim no less truly, if not so manifestly, their folly, as did the 
illiterate sculptor who, having to inscribe the well known admoni- 
tory line, " Sic tra7mt gloria 7)iu7idi" yv'ith great self-complacency, 
presumed to change the last word to suit his purpose, as descrip- 
tive of the day of its inscription, and which he rendered as follows: 
Sic transit gloria Tmsday (!) Are we at liberty to add a single 
reflection deduced from the subject. It is related of the Empress 
Josephine, that her last words were to the efiTect that she never 
caused a single tear to flow : such a record is of itself a monu- 
ment more enduring to the human heart than all the magnificence 
of the costly mausoleum, or the gilded shrine ; and when the fame 
of the warrior's prowess shall have been forgotten, or the melo- 
dious measures of the poet's muse cease to be sung, the simple, 
silent appeals of modesty, virtue and heaven-born faith, will far 
out-live them all ; it is over such the sweet lines of Bryant apply: 

" Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stono : 
And they who near the church-yard's willows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom alone, 



260 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



May think of gentle souls now passed away. 
Like the pure breath into the vast unknown, 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, 
And gone into the boundless heaven again." 

If pausing over some cherished dust, we recall the truth and 
beauty that ouce were associated with it, it is only that we may 
look thence into the future, where all sweet impulses shall be in 
perfect and perpetual bloom ; that we may contrast the life, amid 
darkness and toil, that is passed, with the life that is to come, 
dimly seen, far away, by the "delectable mountains." 

We close our chapter on these mementoes of mortality with the 
following impressive passage from the London Eclectic : 

" How beautiful is the memory of the dead ! What a holy 
thing it is in the human heart, and what a chastening influence it 
sheds upon human life ! How it subdues all the harshness that 
grows up within us in the daily intercourse with the world ! How 
it melts our unkindness, softens our pride, kindling our deepest 
love, and waking our highest aspirations 1 Is there one who has 
not some loved friend gone into the eternal world, w>th whom he 
delights to live again in memory ? Does he not love to sit down 
in the hushed and tranquil hours of existence, and call around him 
the face, the form, so familiar and cherished — to look into the eye 
that mirrored not more clearly his own face than the soul which 
he loves — to listen to the tones which he loves to listen to, the 
tones which were once melody in his ear, and have echoed softly 
in his ear since they were hushed to his senses ? Is there a spirit 
to which heaven is not brought nearer, by holding some kindred 
soul ? How friend follows friend into the happy dwelling-place of 
the dead, till we find at length that they who loved us on the 
heavenly shore are more than they who dwell among us 1 Every 
year witnesses the departure of some one whom we knew and 
loved ; and when we recall the names of all who have been near 
to us in life, how many of them we see passed into that city which 
is imperishable. 



CITATIONS FROM THE CEMETERIES. 261 



"The blessed dead I how free from stain is our love for them ! 
The earthly taint of our affections is buried with that which was 
corruptible, and the divine flame in its purity illumines our breast. 
We have now no fear of losing them. They are fixed for us eter- 
nally in the mansions prepared for our re-union. We shall find 
them waiting for us, in their garments of beauty. The glorious 
dead I how reverently we speak their names ! Our hearts are 
sanctified by their words which we remember. How wise they 
have now grown in the limitless fields of truth ! How joyous they 
have become by the undying fountains of pleasure I The immor- 
tal dead ! how unchanging is their love for us ! How tenderly 
they look down upon us, and how closely they surround our being! 
How earnestly they rebuke the evil of our lives. 

" Let men talk pleasantly of the dead, as those who no longer 
suffer and are tried — as those who pursue no longer the fleeting, 
but have grasped and secured the real. With them the fear aud 
the longings, the hope, and the terror, and the pain are past : the 
fruition of life has begun. How unkind, that when we put away 
their bodies, we should cease the utterance of their names. The 
tender-hearted dead who struggle so in parting from us 1 why 
should we speak of them in awe, and remember them only with 
sighing? Very dear were they when hand clasped hand, and 
heart responded to heart. Why are they less dear when they 
have grown worthy a higher love than ours, and their perfected 
souls might receive even our adoration ! By their hearth-side, 
and by their grave-side, in solitude, and amid the multitude, think 
cheerfully and speak lovingly of the dead." 

" We die and disappear ! 

Of myriads passed within the veil, but one 
Has e'er returned the mystery to clear ! 

He — God's incarnate Son ! 
Then was the dark obscure made light. 

O'er Death and Grave the victory was won, 
And life immortal brought to light !" 




THE SHRINES OF GENIUS. 

" More sweet than odors caught by him who sails 
Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, — 
A thousand times more exquisitely sweet 
The freight of holy feeling which we meet 
In thoughtful moments, wafted on the gales 
From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they rest." 

Wordsworth 

" The love 
Of mighty minds doth hallow, in the core 
Of human hearts, the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous." — BvRorr. 



How universal is the influence of association. The home of 
childhood — however humble — becomes invested with a thousand 
endearing charms, which cluster around the heart with sweet and 
enduring tenacity, compared with which, the most ravishing 
beauties of nature, or glittering blandishments of art, lose all 



THE SHRINES OF GENIUS, 263 



their witchery and force. This feeling, which seems closely 
allied to that of consanguinity, love, or friendship, transfers itself 
to inanimate objects, times, and places, which the presence of 
those once loved or venerated may have hallowed ; thus trans- 
forming them into sainted shrines, at which memory loves to be 
the devoted worshipper. " One of the best secrets of our enjoy- 
ment," says Hazlitt, "lies in the art of cultivating pleasant asso- 
ciations." Everything connected with the children of genius 
awakens universal sjmipathy ; — the places where they have dwelt 
and labored in thought, which have witnessed their sufferings and 
mental anguish, and given bu'th to the brilliant creations of intel- 
lect, necessarily acquire a sacredness and an interest unknown to 
any other. 

Says a contemporary, — "The associations of literature are 
a world of pleasure in themselves. The cultivated mind finds 
beauty and delight everywhere that its bright presence has lin- 
gered ; its sympathies will clmg to the most barren rock, or the 
most desolate heath, where the shadow of genius has fallen, and 
its footsteps have trod. Greece is something more than Greece 
to him ; it is the land of Homer and of song, of Plato and of the 
Academy, of Phidias and of sculpture. Italy is not so much the 
seat of the Ctesars, as it is the synonym of the Ciceros and the 
Yirgils ; and, more recently, of those great names in art, which 
have been well said to be the admiration and despair of all modern 
successors. And so it is still ; for the truth is, that from genius 
embodying itself in literature, there emanates an all-hallowing in- 
fluence, extending even to the inanimate of nature. Whatever it 
touches, it consecrates — whatever it breathes upon, it rescues from 
oblivion ; the hamlet, which but for this, would never have looked 
out from its depth in the greenwood, has risen into the world's 
regard, and becomes the Mecca and Medina of many a willing 
pilgrim. How many have passed the Janiculum hill since the eve 
of that day on which Tasso received the stroke of death, before the 
laurel could be wreathed on his brow 1 How many have stood, in 



264 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



solemn musing, by the hamlet of Arqua, where the lover of Laura, 
freed from her ethereal passion, sleeps the unwaking sleep, though 
still felt to be the pervading spirit of these mountain solitudes ! 
How many have wandered thi-ough the streets of Florence, in 
bootless quest of the localities of Dante and Boccaccio ! Nor in 
our own country is the spell less powerful. Avon ! the unconscious 
witness of the ever -waking fame of its Shakspeare ; how sphere- 
like the music of its waters ! how deeply consecrate by the most 
interesting of associations ! Abbotsford I the residence of the 
northern Aristo ; how ceaseless the march of that wondering ret- 
inue already begun to traverse its now spu'itless halls ! The low, 
thatched Cottage of Burns ! has it not echoed the footsteps of 
many a wrapt admirer of its former inmate ? And even the shady 
retreat of Drummond, and the pastoral solitude of Ramsay, have 
they not, too, participated in the tribute thus paid to genius, in all 
ages and climes ! " 

To begin with a few literary localities, — the first with which we 
commence, although somewhat inodorous in name, from its having 
long been considered as synonymous with poverty, wretchedness, 
and crime, — St. Giles' — we might yet mention two names con- 
nected with it, rendered immortal in verse, — Chapman, the earliest, 
and perhaps one of the best translators of Homer; and Andrew 
Marvell, the accomplished wit, poet, and patriot; all that was 
mortal of whom, reposes in a sepulchre of its parish church. Turn 
we to another classic ground, — the Borough of Southwark, — 
in its precincts once stood the well-remembered Globe Theatre, of 
which Shakspeare was at one time proprietor. Shakspeare's first 
appearance in public life was as attendant at the door of this 
theatre, which stood near Bankside. Bankside, Southwark, is 
also full of interest, from the fact of its being the spot where the 
great dramatist lived during his stay in London. " Stratford-on- 
Avon," (the birth-place of Skakspeare, and where he lies en- 
tombed,) says an eloquent writer in Blackwood, "does not contain 
the remains of mere English genius ; it is the place of pilgrimage 



THE SHRINES OF GENIUS. 265 



to the entire human race. The names of persons of all nations 
are to be found, as on the summit of the Pyramids, encircled on 
the walls of Shakspeare's house ; his grave is the common resort 
of the generous and enthusiastic of all ages, and countries, and 
times. All feel they can — 

" Rival all but Shakspeare's name below." 

Near the Globe were the Bear-Gardens, where Elizabeth, her 
nobles and ladies, used to solace their tender sensibilities with ele- 
gant sport — bear-hunting. Two other early dramatists, Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, also lived near neighbors with the great drama- 
tist. The mortal remains of Fletcher and Massinger rest within 
the time-honored walls of St. Saviour's. In this vicinity formerly 
stood that famous rendezvous of the wits of olden time — ^the 
Tabard, whence Chaucer set out with his " Pilgrims" on his route 
for Canterbury. Here, also, lived and died the contemporary of 
the latter — Gower. 

The favorite resort of the learned of those days, — Raleigh, 
Spenser, Jonson, Philip Sydney, and others, was the Mermaid 
Tavern, Friday street, Cheapside; here Shakspeare and Jonson 
used to sharpen each other's wits. Dryden's dwelling was situated 
in Fetter lane, formerly called Fleur-de-Lis Court : this venerable 
pile is known to the curious by two grim-looking lions in stone, 
over the door-way. This ^ot witnessed most of the poets' toils 
and sufferings — till they ceased in the quiet of Westminster Abbey. 
Dr. Johnson's house, in Bolt Court, Fleet street, no longer exists. 
The accomplished author of the "Pleasures of Memory" relates, 
that when he was a boy of fourteen, he had a violent desire to see 
the great lexicographer, who was then the acknowledged head of 
English literature. He did not know him, nor was he acquainted 
with any one who had that advantage : and in this emergency he 
determined to introduce himself, with the hope that the visit of so 
' young an admirer would prove its own excuse. He went accord- 
I ingly, to Bolt Court ; but when he got his hand upon the knocker, 
t 12 



266 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



his heart failed him, and he came away, and never renewed the 
attempt. 

Goldsmith has hallowed a dirty spot in London, by his residence 
there ; it is called Green Arbor Court, Old Bailey. Here Oliver 
resided in the outset of his career, ere his fame dawned upon the 
world ; and here he completed his " Inquiry into the Present 
State of Polite Literature in Europe," and wrote those amusing 
papers, which w^ere afterwards collected, under the title of "The 
Citizen of the World." The author was writing his " Inquiry," in 
a wretched, dirty room, in which there was but one chair ; and 
when he, from civility, offered it to his visitors himself was obliged 
to sit in the window. This house was the last in the alley, 
looking on a descent, known by the name of " Break-neck- 
stairs." 

East Smithfield was the birth-place of that rare poet of the 
elder school, Spenser. The chequered career of the gentle author 
of the Faerie Quecne is familiar to the reader — his residence, 
Kilcolman Castle, Ireland — its being fired by the populace — his 
return to England — poverty and disasters, and subsequent death, 
in an obscm'e lodging-house in King street, Westminster. His 
death was more honored than his life ; for, says Camden, his 
hearse was attended by poets ; and mournful elegies and poems, 
with the pens that wrote them, were thrown into his tomb — in 
Westminster Abbey. 

Pope awoke to being in a place no less ante-poetic than Lombard 
street — a street where bankers and money-changers are as rife in I 
that day as now. Pope's residence at Twickenham is well-known; 
near his dwelling, the tree may be seen, inscribed with the 
words, "Here Pope sjmg ;" under whose shelter and shade he 
produced many of his effusions. He sleeps in the east end of 
Twickenham church. 

John Milton's birth-place was in Bread street, Cheapside, at the 
" Spread Eagle ;" the house, however, was consumed in the Great 
Fire of London. Milton was proverbially addicted to changing 



THE SHRIXES OF GENIUS. 261 



his abode ; few more noted instances of the kind being upon 
record. He is believed to have written his '^ V Allegro" and "II 
Penseroso " at Horton, in Buckinghamshire ; his great epic, at 
least the earlier portions, were penned at a house at Forest Hill, 
near Oxford. The poet afterwards resided in a large house in 
Aldersgate street, London, where he carried on the craft of a 
schoolmaster, politician, and philosopher. His noble advocacy of 
liberal opinions, it will be remembei-ed, brought him little fame and 
less fortune. From this spot he removed to a house in Holborn, 
facing Lincoln's Inns Fields, thence to lodgings in Scotland Yard, 
near Whitehall, and finally, to the dwelling, still extant, in West- 
minster, looking into St. James' Park. Here he lost his sight, 
which his political opponents ascribed to the anger of Heaven for 
his abetting the popular cause. The ancient front of this memo- 
rable building forms now its back, and overlooks the fine garden 
of the late Jeremy Bentham. Near the top of this ancient front 
is a stone, bearing this uiscription — • 

" Sacred to Milton, the prince of poets." 

This memento was put up by Hazlitt, who rented the house for 
some years, solely because it was once the abode of John Milton. 
Lest any tourist should be in quest of its locale, we will add, it 
stands in York street, west of Westminster Abbey, Xo. 19. At 
the commencement of the Plague, Milton lived in Bunhill Fields ; 
he soon removed to the residence of a wealthy Quaker at Chal- 
fount, at which place he doubtless dictated his " Paradise Re- 
gained," to his then wife, Elizabeth Minshall. The poet's last 
house — " the narrow house appointed for all living" — was a grave 
in the chancel of St. Giles, Cripplegate. Lord Bacon has be- 
queathed the memory of his noble genius to Gray's Inn, where he 
lived and wrote. The corner of Fleet street and Chancery lane 
witnessed the advent of the poet Cowley. Two renowned painters, 
i Sir Joshua Reynolds and Hogarth, immortalized their art in 
L Leicester square, at the house since called the Sabloniere Hotel, 



268 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



And again in St. James' square, with its neighborhood, we might 
mention several illustrious names as its inhabitants : Newton 
lived in St. Martin's street, on the south side of the square ; and 
Steele, in Bury street. Byron first saw the light in HoUis street, 
Hanover square ; he wrote his "Hours of Idleness" at Newark, 
his "Siege of Corinth" in Piccadilly, overlooking the Green Park. 
Cowper's rural retreat was at Olney, Buckinghamshu'e. Cave's 
house, the frequent resort of Johnson and Goldsmith, was at St. 
John's Gate, 'Clerkenwell — a venerable relic, still extant. At No. 
3 Ivy lane, leading to the great book mart. Paternoster row, there 
was formerly a tavern, frequented by the literati of those days, 
where, according to the Spectator, " was held the Humdrum Club, 
who used to sit together, smoke their pipes, and say nothing till 
midnight." Franklin worked at Wall's Printing-house in 1125, 
situate in Portugal street, Lincoln's Inn Fields ; he lodged at a 
house facing the Catholic chapel, in Duke street. At the mention 
of such associations, how many reflections suggest themselves ; 
but we refrain. 

It is worthy of remark, that poets have all loved the rivers ! 
Need we mention the banks of the Doon, or the braes of Yarrow, 
the lonely retirements of the Duddon, or the streams by which 
Edmund Spenser walked in his glory, "breathing bright dreams of 
hope and blessing, and murmuring, as he walked their margin, a 
music sweeter than their own !" 

•Alas ! the cherished boon has been but too frequently denied to 
the majority of those who have sought "to build the lofty rhyme," 
for they have been generally found located in a lofty apartment, 
as if privation and poverty could best jsropitiate the muse. 

Speaking of localities, we ought not to omit the mention of the 
too notorious Grub street, of poetical memory. " We never think 
of a garret," says Ryan, in his "Poetry and Poets," "but an infi- 
nitude of melancholy and lanky associations of skin and bone, poor 
poets and authors, come thronging on our imaginations. All ideas 
of the sins of the flesh evaporate on our entrance, for if all the 



THE SIIRIXES OF GENIUS. 269 



flesh that ever inhabited a garret were to be duly weighed in the 
balances, we are of opinion that it would not amount to a ton. 
In walking up the steps that lead to this domiciliary appendage 
of genius, we are wholly overcome by the sanctity of the spot. 
We think of it as the resort of greatness — the cradle and grave 
of departed intellect, and pay homage to it in a sullen smile, or a 
flood of tears. How venerable does it a2:»pear, at least, if it is a 
genuine garret, with its angular projections, like the fractures in 
poor Goldsmith's face, its tattered and threadbare walls, like old 
Johnson's wig, and its numberless ' loopholes of retreat,' for the 
north wind to peep through and cool the poet's imagination. 
The very forloruness of its situation inspires elevated ideas in pro- 
portion to its altitude ; it seems isolated from the world, and 
adapted solely to the intimate connection that genius holds with 
heaven." 

It was in one of these terial abodes that poor Otway con- 
ceived and penned that affecting tragedy, " Venice Preserved ;" 
and also the facetious and witty Butler his " Hudibras," which, 
while it contributed to the convulsive merriment of the court and 
all classes of readers,'its ill-fated author pined in his solitary attic, 
under the inconvenient pangs of starvation. 

It is grateful to reflect, however, that all are not found domi- 
ciled in these upper regions. Some, on the contrary, moving 
among the upper circles of society instead ; such as Pliny, in early 
times, and Voltaire, Pope, Rogers, and others, among the 
moderns. Others, again, have appeared nnder the most obscure 
circumstances, and bounded into notoriety by tl\e force of their 
genius. Of this class, we might mention Keats, the most " poet- 
ical of poets," who was born in a stable at Moorfields, London. 
The history of this unfortunate yet brilliant writer exhibits a sad 
picture of the casualties which too frequently befall the devotees 
of the muse. Repairing to Italy for the recovery of his enfee- 
bled health, he expired in the arms of a friend, in 1820, ere he had 
attained to the noontide of life. The same may be said of the no 



210 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



less extraordinary, though erratic poet, Shelley. But the sorrows 
of both have long since been hushed ; — they sleep "beneath one of 
the antique weed-grown towers surrounding Rome :" and Keats 
beside him, " under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius." 
The latter once said, in anticipation of his near approaching end, 
that he felt already the daisies growing over him — proving the 
deep love of poetic beauty which glowed in his heart. 

Let us not omit a passing tribute to one of the most promising 
but ill-fated of the sons of song, poor Chatterton, who, on his 
arrival from Bristol, vainly struggling against the iron destiny 
that seemed to crush him — unpitied because unknown, and who 
immured himself in an obscure apartment in Brook street, Hol- 
born. Here, after some days of starvation, he yielded to the 
demon of despair, and destroyed himself. We have paid the 
tribute of a tear at the shrine of his suffering, sorrow, and sin. 
Poor Chatterton, whom Wordsworth styles 

" The sleepless boy, who perished in his pride !" 

He is buried near the workhouse. Shoe Lane, without a stone to 
point the spot. Wonder his memory should thus suffer desecra- 
tion, while the magnificent mausoleum is erected to the honor of 
the titled ignoramus. 

In Salisbury Court lived Thomas Saekvill, Earl of Dorset, the 
precursor of Spenser. Here also resided Richardson, where he 
kept his printing-office. The Temple is eminently classic in its 
associations. Crown-office Row, Temple, was the birth-place of 
Charles Lamb:, he styles it in his " Elia"- — " Cheerful Crown- 
office Row, place of my kindly engender." Many illustrious names 
clustre about these antique buildings. Raleigh, Seldon, Claren- 
den, Congreve, Wyckerly, Fielding, Burke, Johnson, Cowper, 
Rowe, Beaumont, Ford and Goldsmith, had chambers here. 
Then to think of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap, the rendezvous of 
the departed worthies, wits and poets of olden times — Addison, 
Dryden, Ben Jonson, Pope and Butler, the last of whom lived 



THE SHKINES OF GENIUS. 211 



sometime, aud died in Rose street, and was buried in Covent Gar- 
den church, where Peter Pindar also lies. Sir Philip aud Alger- 
non Sydney, both lived at their mansion on the north side of 
' '^■icester Square, at the back of which was Dryden's residcvic>'. 
• Thomas More lived at Chelsea. Addison lived and died at 
Holland House. Kensina-ton. 



Holland House is rife with historic incidents. The surrounding 
park includes about three hundred acres, of which sixty-three are 
laid out as pleasure grounds. Over a rural s.-^t the following 
couplot i'^ ir.scribed : 

■' Here Rogers sat, and iiere for ever dwell 
With me those • Pleasures' that he sang so well.'" 

It was at Holland House of which he became possessed by mar- 
riage, that Addison 

" Taught us how to live ; and, oh ! too high 
A price for knowledge, taught us how to die !" 

Abraham Cowley's name is associated with Chertsey and Bam 
Elms, both in the county of Surrey. The house at Chertsey yet 



212 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



remains, somewhat modernized. Over the door is a small tablet 
of stone, on which is inscribed, 

" Here the last accents fell from Cowley's tongue." 

Close to the pretty lodge leading to Stoke church, and in a 
well-kept and enclosed garden, is a cenotaph erected to the mem- 
ory of Gray. From the high bank on which it is placed, we 
look down into one of those deep lanes so full of beauty, and see 
pretty ferns growing out of the red sand-stone rocks, with wild 
violets, strawberries, and other plants intermixed. In another 
direction, and across a field, is Gray's church-yard, almost sur- 
rounded with high fir-trees covered with ivy, which impart a pleas- 
ing gloom in summer to the spot. It is impossible to approach it 
without feeling that it is a spot calculated to have inspired the 
poet with those feelings which drew from him his beautiful and 
well-known "Elegy." Here he wrote; here he wandered, and 
here he was buried. But where is his monument ? We look for 
it in vain, either in the church or church-yard. There is, indeed, 
the tomb of "the careful, tender mother of many children, one 
of whom had the misfortune to survive her." That child was 
Thomas Gray, the poet. In that same simple tomb his ashes 
repose, with those of the mother he so affectionately loved. 

Ireland claims a passing allusion: if its literary localities are 
less numerous, they are scarcely less interesting. To begin with 
the metropolis: there is Glasnevin, with its rec®llections of Tick- 
ell, Addison, Parnell, and the rest of that brilliant circle which 
there met; there is Swift's birth-place in Hoey's Court, and his 
tomb in St. Patrick's; there is 12 Dorset street, where Sheridan 
first drew his breath, and Aungier street, where his biographer, 
Thomas Moore, was born. And how many a one — even the 
admirer of her poetry — passes 20 Dawson street, without think- 
ing of Mrs. Hemans; yet in that house the " falcon-hearted dove " 
folded its wing and fell asleep, and in the vaults of St. Anne's 
church, hard by, her mortal remains are laid. 



THE SHRINES OF GENIUS, 213 



Thompsoa's natal place was Eduam, near Kelso, Scotland; he 
removed thence • to Southdean, where he is supposed to have 
indited his justly celebrated "Seasons;" afterwards he rcjiaired 
to a house near Richmond, in what is called Kew-foot lane. His 
remains rest in Richmond church where, a brass tablet is erected 
to his mcmoiy. The dwelliug-ijlace of the great German poet, 
Schiller, where he lived and sung, is still extant, situijte in the 
village of Gohlis, Leipsic. The rural cottage stands in a retired 
nook from the road. Says a modern tourist, — 

" It is so modest, so humble, that it hardly seems to dare to 
look over the tall stone fence and lordly gate, which modern 
respect and enthusiasm have erected before it. Its narrow face 
of rude mortar is covered with a creeping vine, and over two 
little windows, which peep out from under the sharply-slanting 
roof, catching the rays of the evening's sun, are written the 
words, ' Schiller's Study.' The gate itself bears the following 
inscription : 

' Here dwelt 

SCHILLER. 

and wrote the Song of Joy, 

ia the year 

1785.' 

" How simple and touching a moral is here 1 In poverty, in 
distress, in want of friends and bread — as yet unrenowned — as 
yet unjiatronized by dukes, and unsolicited by kings — an exile — a 
stranger, — ' here dwelt Schiller, and wrote the Song of Joy !' 
Blessed be the spirit of poetry, which can thus change sorrow 
into rejoicing. Next to the glorious hope whose consolation 
' passeth all understanding,' this spirit of ideal beauty and happi- 
ness — this inward power of investing the outward life and its 
changing circumstances with hues of light and joy, this is the 
best gift of God to man. 0, let us not despise the poet ! His 
mission is holy and good. He teaches us to see fresh beauty in 

12* 



214 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



the works and ways of God, — to wear the fetters of care more 
lightly about us, and to find roses in the rockiest path that duty 
and affliction ever trod." 

Rogers, the poet of two ages, still resides in his elegant man- 
sion at St. James's Place. Barry Cornwall, lives in Harley- 
street, Cavendish Square ; Walter Savage Landor, at Bath; 
Tennyson, at Twickenham ; Carlyle, at Chelsea; and Sir E. Bulwcr 
Lytton, at his splendid estate, Knebworth Park. 

Franklin, lodged in Little Britain, and worked in Palmer's 
printing office, Bartholomew Close. He also lived at No. 1 Cra- 
ven street, Strand-: and in Duke street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
opposite the Catholic Chapel. The house in which Franklin spent 
his early days is still extant, it is at the corner of Union and 
Hanover streets, Boston : a shrine of genius to tempt pilgrim 
feet. In Gray's Inn, Holborn, lived Pym and Hampden. John 
Howard spent his youth in Long lane, Smithfield, near Alders- 
gate street. 

It is worthy of remark, that, as in Europe, so is it here in 
America — our northern cities have been more prolific in great 
men than any other section of country. Portland, in Maine, may 
boast of being the birth-place of the following distinguished 
American WTiters: Willis, Neal, Longfellow, and others. 

Berkshu*e is also classic soil. In a little study, five feet by four, 
still pointed out in a wooden house at Stockbridge, Jonathan 
Edwards wrote his " Treatise on the Will." It stands directly 
opposite the mansion of the Sedgwick family. 

" Bryant," says a contemporary, "must have caught, in these his 
native woods, that silent love of nature which prompted him to 
hold communion with her outward forms, and to record the vari- 
ous language which she speaks; while in return he has rendered 
classic the peak of Monument Mountain, the windings of Green 
river, and many other scenes less noted, but not a whit less beau- 
tiful." He now resides at Roslyn, Long Island. 

Pittsfield, Massachusetts, is the home of Oliver Wendell 



THK SHIUXES OK GKNIUS. 275 



Holmes. Within sight of the house of Dr. Holmes, is that of 
Hermann Melville, the author of " Omoo," and " Typee." 

At Lenox, lives Miss Catharine M. Sedgwick, whose various 
tales are well and widely known. Many of them are founded on 
New England scenes, and one of them at least, the Boy of Mount 
Rhigi, is directly connected with the lofty mountains, and the 
Bash Bish waterfall in the southwestern corner of this country. 
It was here that Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler spent so juaiiy 
months of her recent visit to America. G. P. R. James, the 
novelist, has a beautiful place in Stockl)ridge, near the Icy Glen. 

2sot far away is the summer residence of Maunsell B. Field. 
Hawthorne, resides at Concord. 

Bancroft, the American historian, lived during his early days 
at Round Hill, Northampton; Dana, at Cape Ann, Massachu- 
setts; Trescott's family mansion, rife with historic associations, 
is at Pepperell, Massachusetts. Cooper's residence was Otsego 
Hill, Cooperstown, Xcw York; Everett resides in his own house 
in Summer street, Bostou; Emerson at Concord; Longfellow at 
Craigic house, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and Webster lived, 
died, and now reposes in his di*eamless sleep, at Marshfield, Massa- 
chusetts; Simms resides on his southern plantation at Woodlands, 
South Carolina, and Kennedy at EUicott's Mills, Maryland. 
Paulding still lives on the banks of the Hudson. Washington 
Irving, whose classic pen has invested this noble river with the 
witchery of romance, dwells in a little bijou of a vine-clad 
cottage — also rife with storied interest — at Sunny Side. The 
great American Naturalist, Audubon, lived, when not wander- 
ing amid the Avild prairies of the west, at his beautiful villa at 
Bloomingdale. 

Here we close our notes of the notable localities of the learned, 
although our list might well be expanded to double its extent. 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 

" We live ill deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart throbs. He most lives 
AVho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best ; 
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest." 

Jamf.s Martiseau. 



The question whether man is capable of performing an act of 
pure disinterestedness, has long since furnished a theme rife with 
interest to the metaphysician and the moralist. Doubtless the 
most specious and plausible, as well as popular hypothesis, is that 
of the negative of the question, which has numbered among its 
more prominent defenders, Helvetius, Hobbes, and Lord Shaftes- 
bury : the converse of the proposition, has enlisted the zealous 
advocacy of Hazlitt, who has brought to the discussion of the sub- 
ject his usual analytic skill, ingenius reasoning, and apt illustra- 
tion. Without intending to follow implicitly the ratiocinative 
process pursued by these learned disputants, we shall present a 
succinct view of the several arguments adduced by the respective 
writers. A due regard to one's own interest, it is admitted, is a 
duty of paramount importance — self-preservation is the first law 
of our being, and Shakspearc endorses the axiom when he says, — 

" Self-love is not so vile a sin 
As self-neglecting." 

But there is certainly no necessity to carry out the rule to such 
extremes as to infringe upon the social rights of our fellow-men. 
It is true man is an individualism— a separate existence — a little 



THE SiiLFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 21T 



world in himself, but it is no less true that he is governed by the 
same gravitating laws that control the universe. Do not the 
starry hosts move in harmonious companionship, reciprocating the 
joyous radiance of their celestial light, and the blushing, many- 
tinted flowers diffuse around their rich and varied fragrance, min- 
gling their honeyed breath in the giad anthems of their Maker's 
praise, while the luxuriant foliage of the forest trees bend their 
leafy branches, and sigh responsive to the whispers of the amorous 
wind ? The fainting flowers drink in with delight the nectared 
dew, distilled at eventide with grateful, sympathetic joy, and they 
greet again with ecstatic smiles the dawn of the new-born day. 
The feathered choristers, as they carol forth their celestial min- 
strelsy, soar in sweet society as they sing, causing the welkin to 
resound with the varied strains of their delicious melody. In fine, 
the innumerable tenants of earth, sea and sky all proclaim to man 
the heaven-born truth that God is love, and that all the emana- 
tions of His benificence and power are linked together by the 
golden chains of universal sympathy. On the other hand, such 
are the peculiar circumstances in which he is placed, that man is 
necessarily compelled to be, to a certain extent, selfish. If, there- 
fore, it be an admitted truth, that man is the creature of circum- 
stance, it would seem to follow that the characteristic becomes 
less a crime than a calamity. In civilized society, such is the 
apochryphal character of the world's charities, that forlorn and 
friendless indeed is the condition of the unendowed. " Help your- 
self, and your friends will love you," is the proverbial maxim of 
mankind, and it assuredly continues in full force at the present 
day. When the kindly offices of friendship are not required, how 
lavishly are they proffered, but let the dark shades of adversity 
gather thickly around us, and how vainly may we wait for the 
boasted sympathetic aid. The " battle of life" involves a constant 
struggle for the acquisition of wealth ; while in the contest, cupid- 
ity, cunning and the caprices of fortune form the leading elements. 
To enter the lists successfully, a man must be fitly panoplied, — he 



278 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



must bravely contend for the prize, for should he fall ingloriously 
in the strife, his fate is sealed, and he is soon trampled upon by 
the more daring and successful. Brilliant successes await but 
comparatively few, but in most well-regulated communities, fewer 
still are denied the necessaries and conveniences of life ; and if 
any, through casualties or disasters, fail of securing these, the' 
arena is still open to their renewed endeavors. Tli.e progressive 
tendency of the social spii'it is to fraternize mankind, to equalize 
the distribution of property; but as at present constituted, the 
social system is to a great degree divided into the two great 
classes of the affluent and the poor, — the extremes of which may 
be seen in the great capital of modern refinement and civilization 
— London. In England, it is well known, the most sumptuous 
displays of magnificence and splendor are contrasted by the most 
appalling instances of the direst destitution and distress : while 
those whom an iron destiny has placed under its servile conditions 
are debarred access to the hearts of their opulent masters. The 
divine axiom, " it is more blessed to give than to receive," is a pre- 
cept little known to their refined code, and the benisous of benev- 
olence are terms almost unknown to their polite vocabulary. The 
pampered and privileged patrician, surrounded by all the appli- 
ances of luxury and affluence, is too far removed by the artificial 
restrictions of caste, to heed the sighing and sorrowing of the suf- 
fering children of penury and want. There are, however, a few 
noble exceptions to this, and joy to the world, their number is on 
the increase. Nor are instances of public benefaction wanting in 
our own happy land, for if we have not in our own day a Howard 
to visit our lazarettos and prisons, we have yet many a self-sacri- 
ficing philanthropist seeking to mitigate the wants of the depressed 
and needy,— men, the noblest of their race, who delight in the 
luxury of doing good, — 

" Brave conquei'oi's — for sucli they are, 
That war against their own affections, 
And the huge army of the world's desires." 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 219 



The Deity has not only constituted man a social being, he has 
also ordained this moral attribute a source of his most exquisite 
enjoyment ; so that he who possesses a spirit of benevolence in its 
highest development, is necessarily the hajjpiest of mortals. 

" Soft peace it brings, wherever it arrives, 
It builds our quiet, latent hope revives, 
Lays the rough paths of nature smooth and even. 
And opens in each heart a little heaven." 

Some generous-hearted bemgs there are who seem to devote their 
lives, and to derive their principal enjoyment in ministering to the 
happiness of their kind : these are the joyous spirits that ever 

" Make sunshine in a shady place," 

dispel ft'om the suftering spirit the demon of despair, and reflect 
the radiance of celestial love all around, — changing the heart's 
wilderness of worldly care into a cultured garden of all pleasant 
things. Says an andnymous writer, "There is a large and fertile 
space in every life, in which might be planted the oaks and fruit 
trees of enlightened principle and virtuous habit, which, growing 
up, would yield to old age an enjoyment, a glory, and a shade." 
Despite all efforts to meliorate their condition, however, some peo- 
ple there are who will not consent to be made happy : they find 
their greatest satisfaction in incessant grumbling, and repining 
against the decisions of their destiny. Discontent, like a murky 
cloud impervious to the light of heaven, broods ever upon their 
darkened horizon, — no matter whether their condition l)e one of 
privation or of prosperity, they are alike dissatisfied with their lot. 

" They err who say life it not sweet. 
Though cares are long and pleasures fleet ; 
Though smiles and tears, and sun and storm. 
Still change life's ever-varying form. 
The mind that looks on things aright. 
Sees through the clouds the deep blue light." 

Cheerfulness is an amulet, a charm to make us permanently con- 



280 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



tented and 'happy. "A cheerful man feels well, does well, and 
loves things which are good ; while he who is always sad, doeth 
ill in the very sorrow he evinceth.". Long-faced, sanctimonious 
people are generally avoided, and very justly so, for who wishes to 
partake of their malady ? Whereas, those accustomed to look on 
the sunny side of life, are ever courted for the genial spirit they 
diffuse about them. 

Says a sprightly writer, — " He who administers medicine to the 
sad heart, in the shape of wit and humor, is most assuredly a good 
Samaritan. A cheerful face is nearly as good for ah invalid as 
healthy weather. To make a sick man think he is dying, all that 
is necessary is to look half dead yourself ! Open, unrestrained 
merriment, is a safety valve to the heart and disposition. If over- 
burdened with the noxious gases of care, pull the string of wit, 
up flies the. valve of fun, and out go the troubles and vexations of 
life to the four winds of heaven. It is a fact beyond dispute, that 
mirth is as innate in the mind as any other quality that nature has 
planted there — it only wants cultivation, and the more we cultivate 
it, the more fruitful it becomes. Mirror-like, the world reflects 
back to us the picture which we present to its surface. A cheer- 
ful heart paints the world as it sees it — like a sunny landscape ; 
the morbid mind depicts it like a sterile wilderness ; and thus 
chameleon-like, life takes its hue of light or shade from the soul on 
which it rests, dark or sunny, as the case may be." 

Dr. Johnson used to say that a habit of looking on the best side 
of every event is better than a thousand pounds a year. Bishop 
Hall quaintly remarks, " for every bad there might be a worse, and 
when a man breaks his leg, let him be thankful that it was not his 
neck !" When Fenelon's library was on fire, " God be praised," he 
exclaimed, " that it is not the dwelhng of some poor man ! This is 
the true spirit of submission — one of the most beautiful traits that 
can possess the human heart. Resolve to see this world on its 
sunny side, and you have almost half won the battle of life at the 
outset. 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 281 



" A smile on the face and kind ■words on the tongue. 
Will serve you as passports all nations among ; 
A heart that is cheerful, a spirit that 's free, 
Will carry you bravely o'er life's stormy sea. 

Talk not of fortune, talk not of fate — 
We make our own troubles, however we prate ! 
This world would be lioney where now it is gall, 
Were we but contented and merry withal ! 

In the midst of our song, in the midst of our cheer. 
We gratefully will our Creator revere ; 
And for ever and aye we '11 the grand secret prize. 
That unless we are merry, we cannot be wise." 

Too many people look upon half the vicissitudes of life as exces- 
sive bores ; and simply because, in their limited knowledge, they 
can see no essential use in a thing, which, for the moment, may 
cause them temporary annoyance, they unhesitatingly condemn it. 
But nothing is worthless ; it is only ignorance as to its appropri- 
ate use that renders anything of little value. Countless wealth 
lies hidden in all the creations of God, and every green herb and 
root contains uncounted riches for the use of man. How true it 
is, that in the perfect circle of creation, nothing could be spared, 
for there is design in all things. Man, in his weakness, would 
crush the myriads of insects that people the air, or fatten on 
decayed substances. He can see no use in the thistle that springs 
up spontaneously to mock the indolence of the husbandman ; he 
questions the wisdom of Divine Providence when the pestilence 
claimeth its victims, yet he knows not but it sweepeth away a 
mightier and unknown curse. It has been beautifully said that 
the foreknown station of a rush is as fixed as the station of a king; 
and doubtless the sailing of a cloud hath Providence for its pilot. 

Of all the numerous bores with whom society is afflicted, none 
is more pestilential than the sour man — the fellow who is always 
dissatisfied, grumbling, and discontented. He is not satisfied with 
being imcomfortable himself, but he seeks to spread a shade of 



282 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



discomfort all around him. If he would be content to confine his 
mutterings and murmurings to himself, and to maintain a strict 
seclusion, he might be pardoned and pitied ; but when he thrusts 
his gi-ievances upon society, he then becomes, as Dogberry elo- 
quently observes, " most tolerable, and not to be endured." 

" The sour man is always som- ; the milk of human kindness in his 
breast is curdled — there is no sweetness in the acid principle of his 
composition ; nature has given him a quantiun sttfficit of lemon- 
juice, but has forgotten the saccharine ingredient. He is sour 
from the rising of the sun to the going down of the same ; in sun- 
shine and moonlight, twilight and gaslight. When he awakes in 
the morning, he grumbles because it is time to get up ; his coffee 
is always too hot or too cold ; his toast and steak either overdone 
or underdone ; he finds nothing satisfactory in the morning papers; 
he is always in the opposition, let whatever party be in govern- 
ment. When he goes out he invariably grumbles at the weather ; 
if it is a little cool, he calls it Arctic weather; if it is mild, he 
compares it to the tropics ; if it drizzles, he declares it rains pitcli- 
forks, and a gentle breeze is a hurricane." 

Those who assume a mournful and sad air, though they differ 
somewhat from the sour man, are much after the same school, 
save that the weeping philosopher is generally mourning for him- 
self. He will never set out upon a journey without first fortifying 
himself, by bringing to mind all the horrible steamboat accidents, 
and stage-coach tragedies, and dismal robberies, and murders of 
travelers that have occurred within the last half century. He will 
thus be prepared to " sup full of horrors on the road." 

When the engine whistles on approaching a crossing, he will 
immediately feel certain of a coming collision, and will screw his 
body into all manner of impossible shapes to meet it ; while the 
ordinary signal of the engineer's bell, on board the boat, will 
instantly suggest the explosion of the boiler, and the destruction 
of all the passengers. The porter who takes his carpet bag will 
bear the aspect of a highway robber ; and the pretty waiting-maid 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 283 



at the hotel, as she hands him his sugar for the coffee, will be 
taken for a Lucretia Borgia in disguise, serving him with allo- 
pathic doses of arsenic or corrosive sublimate ! 

The laughing philosopher is the very antipodes of both the spe- 
cimens referred to. He enjoys everything as he goes along ; he 
makes fun of every little mistake he encounters on life's pilgrimage ; 
and a tumble in a stage-coach, or a slip from a rail, are regarded 
as a matter of course. His flow of spirits never slackens till the 
tide of life has ceased to ebb ; hence he always appears ten years 
younger than he actually is. His hair never turns gray, or, at 
least, seems never to do so ; his step never loses its elasticity ; he 
trips through life as gaily and unconcernedly as he walks through 
a quadrille, and succeeds not only in making himself, but every 
one around him, happy; aud as the pursuit of happiness is the 
main object of life, his philosophy, beyond a doubt, is the only true 
one. " They pass best over the world," said Queen Elizabeth, 
" who trip over it quickly; for it is but a bog — if we stop, we sink !" 

Grumbling is said fo be a characteristic of the English — a part 
of his very psychology ; nor is his near kinsman — the Yankee — far 
removed from the influence of a similar propensity, for he is rarely 
contented with his present pccmiiory acquisitions. An opposite 
disposition is a far wiser one, as well as a happier ; and, since the 
longer we live in the world, and the more we test the value of 
mundane friendships, we prove their insincerity ; it is better to be 
fortified against surprisals and disappointments by cherishing a 
good opinion of, and maintaining a good acquaintance with — one- 
self. In the words of a contemporary: — 

" You cannot find a more companionable person than yourself, 
if proper attention be })aid to the individual. Yourself will go 
■with you wherever you like, and come away when you please — 
approve your jokes, assent to your propositions, and, in short, be 
in every way agreeable, if you only learn and practice the true art 
of being on good terms with yourself. This, however, is not so 
easy as some imagine, who do not often try the experiment. 



284 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



Yourself, when it catches you in company with no other person, is 
apt to be a severe critic on your faults and foibles, and when you 
are censured by yourself, it is generally the severest and most 
intolerable species of reproof. It is on this account that you are 
afraid of yourself, and seek any associates, no matter how inferior, 
whose bold chat may keep yourself from playing the censor. 
Yourself is likewise a jealous friend. If neglected and slighted, 
it becomes a lore, and to be left, even a short time, ' by yourself is 
then regarded as actually a cruel penance, as many find when 
youth, health, or wealth have departed. How important is it 
then to ' know thyself,' to cultivate thyself, to respect thyself, to 
love thyself warmly but rationally. A sensible self is the best of 
guides, for few commit errors but in broad disregard of its admo- 
nitions. It tugs continually at the skirt of men to draw them 
from their cherished vices. It holds up its shadowy finger in 
warning when you go astray, and it sermonizes sharply on your 
sins after they have been committed. Our nature is twofold, and 
its noblest part is the self to which we refer. It stands on the 
alert to check the excess of the animal impulses, and though it 
becomes weaker in the fulfillment of its task by repeated disap- 
pointments, it is rarely so enfeebled as to be unable to rise up 
occasionally sheeted and pale, like Richard's victims, to overwhelm 
the offender with bitter reproaches. Study, therefore, to be on 
good terms with yourself — it is happiness to be truly pleased with 
yourself." 

A man's life divested of the social virtues must necessarily be 
one of wretchedness ; for they constitute as truly and essentially 
an integral part of his own happiness, as they confer happiness 
upon those around him : it is suicidal to neglect their cultivation. 
To yield oneself to the impulsive influences of blind caprice, 
humor, faction, or zeal, is to contravene self-interest ; since the 
claims of kindred and the common weal are inseparably connected 
with our own. Philosophers, however, have sought to urge this 
principle to an unreasonable extreme, by insisting that the univer- 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 285 



sal love of our species was but a fuller development of self-love ; 
and that consequently no act of pure, disinterested benevolence 
could possibly exist. Magnanimity and courage, as well as phi- 
lanthropy and patriotism have been classed together under the 
same category — as merely modifications of this universal self-love. 
It is the supremacy of wisdom to cherish this passion, or principle, 
and to submit to its rule under the guidance and authority of 
reason ; for rightly to estimate life is to value it in proportion to 
the amount of real good it confers. If happiness be the chief 
good, and of which all are in diligent pursuit, our reason would 
teach us, that not in blindly obeying the selfish impulses or pas- 
sions of our nature should we attain its possession, but by simply 
submitting our conduct to the arbitration and test of that reason, 
irrespective of present, personal, or ostensible advantage. Lord 
Shaftesbury remarks that a great many people pass for very good- 
natured persons, for no other reason than because they care about 
nobody but themselves ; and consequently, as nothing annoys 
them but what touches their own interest, they never irritate 
themselves unnecessarily about what does not concern them, and 
seem to be made of the very milk of human kmdness. This kind 
of good-nature is, of course, the most consummate selfishness, par- 
taking, in no small degree, of a love of indolence and exclusive 
personal indulgence : such individuals are apparently inoffensive 
and harmless in society, but they are injurious, because in the way. 
They are drones in the hives of human industry, or if they accu- 
mulate, the common weal is little benefitted by their acquisition. 
Hazlitt has some remarks precisely in point : " Your good-natured 
man is, generally speaking, one who does not like to be put out 
of his way ; and as long as he can help it, that is, till the provoca- 
tion comes home to himself, will not. He does not create fictitious 
uneasiness out of the distresses of others ; he does not fret and 
fume, and make himself uncomfortable about things he cannot 
mend, and that no way concern him, even if he could : but then 
there is no one who is more apt to be disconcerted by what puts 



286 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



him to any personal inconvenience, however trifling ; who is more 
tenacious of his self-indulgences, however unreasonable ; or who 
resents more violently any interruption of his ease and comforts — 
the very trouble he is put to in resenting it being felt as an aggra- 
vation of the injury. A person of this character feels no emotions 
of anger, if you tell him of the devastation of a province, or the 
massacre of the inhabitants of a town, or the enslaving of a 
people ; but if his dinner is spoiled, he is thrown into irretrievable 
consternation and confusion. He thinks nothing can go amiss, as 
long as he is at his ease, though possibly a pain in his little finger 
renders him so peevish and impatient that no one can approach 
his presence." Such are the protean forms of human life that it is 
next to impossible for a man to assume the same aspect under its 
manifold phases, and yet be honest ; a disposition like that we have 
exhibited, cannot therefore consist with strict moral integrity. 
Such a Jesuitical sphit is indeed far more to be deprecated than its 
opposite extreme, Ibecause of its deceit and hypocrisy. Good- 
nature, such as has been delineated, has been defined " humanity 
that costs nothing," for it incurs no risk of martyrdom in any 
cause ; while it sacrifices all on the altar of self-interest. 

" Self is the medium least refined of all 
Through which opinion's searching beam can fall ; 
And passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray 
Will tinge its light, and turn its line astray." 

It is difiicult to analyse the true motive which induces the 
patriot to serve his country's interest at the seeming expense of 
his own ; it must be either a pure sentiment of disinterested 
patriotism, or that of an ardent love of popular renown. The 
same may be said of the philanthropist, and the pioneer mission- 
ary ; the latter, however, is doubtless actuated by the higher con- 
victions of religious obligation. It is possible also for a man to 
prefer the interests of his friend to his own, from a feeling of pure 
benevolence ; although history and experience fm'nish but few 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 281 



instances of such exalted virtue. It is contended by writers 
adverse to the proposition, that this benevolence towards others is 
always found in proportion to the utility they are likely to be of to 
the party in retui-n. We thus prefer our fellow-citizens to strangers, 
our friends to our fellow-citizens, and our family connexions above 
all: for the more intimate the relationship the more increased is the 
reflex influence and advantage to be derived. It is further urged 
•that this is equally true irrespective of all collateral or accidental 
circumstances ; if our friend or his family be wealthy, we share the 
advantages in proportion to his influence and power — or if in 
poverty, our sympathy and regard are not withdrawn, from the 
conviction that in the possible contingencies of fortune, we also 
may ourselves hereafter need succor. They also alledge that our 
sympathies become enlisted towards the suffering, not from a 
genuine desire to compassionate their disti'ess, but from the remem- 
brance of having endured the like ourselves, or in proportion to 
the fear we may cherish of becoming its victims. This is specious 
reasoning, fallacious and sophistical. The inference above deduced, 
that benevolence is merely a reflection of self-love, is founded on 
the assumption that we always feel for others in proportion to the 
advantage they are of to us — and this assumption is a false one. 
The argument of Hazlllt may be thus l)riefiy stated— that the 
habitual or known connection between our own welfare and that 
of others, is one great source of our attachment to them, is not 
denied ; but to insist that it is the exclusive one, and that bene- 
volence has not a natural basis of its own to rest upon, as well as 
self-love, is contrary to the dictates of sound reason and human 
experience. Grant this, and the actual effects which we observe 
in human life, will follow, from both principles combined : for 
example, take that purest of all earthly loves — the affection of 
the mother for her child — it cannot be the effect of the good 
received or bestowed, or the child's power of conferring benefits, 
or its standing in need of assistance. Are not the fatigues 
which the mother undergoes for the child — its helpless condition, 



288 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



its little vexations, its sufferings from ill-healtli or accidents, addi- 
tional claims upon maternal tenderness, and act as so many causes 
that tend to increase its devotion ? 

" The domestic fireside is a seminary of infinite importance. It is 
important because it is universal, and because the education it 
bestows, being woven in with the woof of chUdhood, gives forra 
and color to the whole texture of life. There are few who can 
receive the honors of a college, but all are graduates of the heart.* 
The learning of the university may fade from recollection ; its 
classic lore may moulder in the halls of memory ; but the simple 
lessons of home, enameled upon the heart of childhood, defy the 
rust of years, and outlive the more mature, but less vivid pictures 
of after days. So deep, so lasting, are the impressions of early 
life, that you often see a man in the imbecility of age, holding 
fresh in his recollection the events of childhood, while all the wide 
space between that and the present hour, is a forgotten waste." 

Again, we not only participate in the successes of our friends, 
but also in their reverses and trials, not for the reason already 
assigned, so much as from real regard to their welfare : benevo- 
lence is not therefore a mere physical reflection of self-love : it is 
more the result of moral feeling, or at least a combination with 
this. It is the nature of compassion or pity, to forget self, in the 
commiseration of the sufferings of another. 

" 'T is a little thing 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, 
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than where nectarian juice 
Renews the life of joy in happier hours." 

Says Bishop Butler, there are three distinct perceptions, or in- 
ward feelings upon sight of persons in distress, — real sorrow or 
concern for the misery of our fellow-creatures, — some degree of 
satisfaction from a consciousness of our freedom from that misery, 



THE SELFISH AND THE SOCIAL. 289 



and, as the mind passes on from one thing to another, it is not un- 
natural from such an occasion to reflect upon our own liability to 
the same, or other calamities. The two last frequently accompany 
the first, but it is the first only, ^Yhich is properly compassion, of 
which the distressed are objects, and which directly carries us with 
calmness and thought to their assistance. Any one of these, from 
various and complicated reasons, may in particular cases prevail 
over the other two ; aud there are, he supposes, instances where the 
bare sight of distress, without our feeling any compassion for it, 
may be the occasion of either, or both, of the two latter. Sup- 
posing, therefore, that our most generous feelings and actions were 
so far equivocal, the object only bearing a show of disinterested- 
ness, the secret motive being always selfish, this would be no 
reason for rejecting the common use of the term disinterested 
benevolence, which expresses nothing more than an immediate 
reference of our actions to the good of others, as self-love ex- 
presses a conscious reference of them to our own good as means 
to an end. In other words, self-love can mean only one of 
these three things ; — the conscious pursuit of our own good as 
such, — the love of physical pleasure, and aversion to physical 
pain, — or the gratification derived from our sympathy with 
others : if all our actions do not proceed from one of these 
three principles, they are not all resolvable into self-love. The ar- 
gument is susceptible of varied illustration, did our limits admit of 
amplification. In conclusion, we would venture to affirm, that as 
a general rule, there is no exclusive principle of self-love in the 
human mind, constantly impelling us, as a set purpose, to pursue 
our own advantage, and nothing but that. That since sympathy 
and self-love are inconsistent, and we invest man with the attri- 
bute of ideas of things out of himself, and to be influenced by 
them, he must necessarily cease to be a merely selfish agent. He 
is then under another law and another necessity, and in spite of 
himself is forced out of the direct line of his own interest, both 
future and present, by other principles inseparable from his nature 

13 



290 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



as an intelligent being. Our sympathy, therefore, is not the ser- 
vile, ready tool of our self-love, but this latter principle is itself 
subservient to, and overruled by the former, — that is, an attach- 
ment to others is a real, independent principle of human action. 
The only sense, then, in which our sympathy with others can be 
construed into self-love, must be that the mind is so constituted, 
that without forethought, or any reflection in itself, or when seem- 
ing most occupied with others, it is still governed by the same 
universal feeling of which it is wholly unconscious ; and that we 
indulge in compassion, only because, and in so far as it coincides 
with our own immediate gratification. It is doubtless in this 
sense we are to apply the lines of Pope : — 

" Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; 
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, 
Another still, and still another speeds ; 
Friend, parent, neighbor, first its will embrace ; 
His country nest — next the 'whole human race." 

In fine, the argument may be summed up in the Divine require- 
ments, " love thy neighbor as thyself." In proportion as we sub- 
ordinate the selfish principle, we accelerate our personal enjoy- 
ment. The purest pleasure of life is the consciousness of loving 
and being beloved. 

•' Grant me, Heaven, my earnest prayer — 
Whether life of ease or care 
Be the one to me assigned, 
That each coming year may find 
Loving thoughts and gentle words 
Twined within my bosom's chords. 
And that age may but impart 
Riper freshness to my heart !" 




PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 



" Of all writers, the poet," says Washington Irving, " becomes 
the most fascinated with his gentle vocation. Others may write 
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will 
always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, 
whose features are always the same, and always interesting. 
Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldly; their pages crowded 
with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tedious- 
ness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or 
brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest lan- 
guage. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most 
striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of 
human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, there- 
fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the 
age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within a 
small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, 
which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The 
setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then 



292 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY, 



to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and 
intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back 
over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of 
dullness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies 1 
What bogs of theological speculations ! What dreary wastes of 
metaphysics 1 Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illu- 
minated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely-separated 
heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from 
age to age." 

" Thorow earth, and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe ; 
And featly nyps the worlde's abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve; 
The honey-combe the bee doth make, 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drope from poet's head ; 
Which doth surmount our common talke, 

As farre as dross doth lead." 

" He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature," 
says Johnson, " demonstrably multiplies the inlets of happiness ; 
therefore we should cherish ardor in the pursuit of knowledge, 
remembering that a blighted spring makes a barren year, and 
that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only 
intended by nature as preparatory to autumnal fruits." The 
works of genius are full of magic; rings upon which the genii 
ever wait; such books, in a pre-eminent sense combine the utile 
et dulce. 

" Books are not seldom talismans and spells." There is a kind of 
analogy between the love of certain books, and that of particular 
individuals, — derived, doubtless, from associations common to all. 
This feeling often duns the eye of riper years, when it chances to 
wander again over the favorite pages of our school days, — over 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 293 



such works as Robinson Crusoe, or the Yicar of Wakefield, — each 
leaf then brings back from the well-guarded stores of memory the 
cherished forms, now passed away, of those who shared with us 
the relish of their first perusal. How tenaciously the pleasant 
recollection of some choice books will stick to us through life; we 
feel more than a fraternal love for them. It is not surprising, 
therefore, that the true devotees of literature and literary pur- 
suits should become the willing, if not eager victims of the pas- 
sion, in a still stronger degree. If men are characterized by their 
company, why then may they not be by their choice of books ? 
Doubtless many a dormant genius has received its first impulse 
and direction from some particular author; and in some cases, to 
this cause may be primarily ascribed the beneficial and important 
purposes to which that genius has been applied. Our allusion to 
that old favorite, Robinson Crusoe, reminds us of many illustrious 
men of letters with whom it became a first and favorite book. 
Among these might be named Marmontel, Rousseau, Blair, 
Beattie, Johnson, Chalmers, Scott, Clare, and Charles Lamb; 
the last of whom, in his confession of the fact, says, "That its 
deep interest and familiar style, render it alike delightful to all 
ranks and classes." Johnson also admitted more, adding, he 
believed " Nobody ever laid down the book without wishing it 
longer;" and Marmontel's testimony is no less decidedly approving; 
for he states that Robinson Crusoe was the first book he ever 
read with exquisite pleasm-e. 

"The Pilgrim's Progress "is another universal favorite — per- 
haps the most perfect and picturesque specimen of allegorical 
vrriting in any language ; the peculiarity of which is its striking 
versimilitude, imparting to the pure creations of the author's rich, 
exuberant imagination, the impress of truth. Modern criticism, 
indeed, has ventured to assign to this work a rank even equal 
with that of Homer, the sublime epic of Milton, and the mighty 
genius of the world's great poet ! Coleridge, referring to Bun- 
yan's "Pilgrim," observes, that " though composed in the lowest 



294 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



style of English, it is without slang or false grammar. This won- 
derful work is one of the few which may be read repeatedly and 
and each time with new pleasure. " I read it once," he says, " as 
a theologian, and let me assure you there is great theological 
acumen in the work ; once with devotional feeling, and once as 
a poet. I would not have believed beforehand, that Galvanism 
could be painted in such exquisitely delightful colors. I know of 
no book, (the Bible being excepted, as above all comparison,) 
which, according to my judgment and experience, I could so 
safely recommend, as teaching and enforcing the whole system of 
saving truth, as the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' I am convinced that it 
is incomparably the best summary of evangelical Christianity ever 
produced by a writer not miraculously inspired." Little dreamed 
the poor, despised tinker, what an almost superhuman influence his 
humble pen was destined to exert in all after time. What an 
incalculable amount of copies of this production, have been printed 
in the several languages of the civilized world. 

Sidney's Arcadia, and the pure fount of song of that " true and 
gentle poet," Spenser, were the well-known chosen associates of 
many master minds of old — such as Milton, Shakspeare, Waller, 
Cowley, etc. Dr. Johnson loved Walton's life of Dr. Donne, and 
Lady Montague's Letters. He says, according to Boswell, that 
the reader who does not relish the first named work is no phi- 
losopher, and he who does not enjoy the second is no Christian. 

Benjamin Franklin says that Plutarch's Lives, Defoe's Essay on 
Projects, and a work entitled Essays to do Good, were his three 
favorite books, and those from which he derived the most advan- 
tage. Speaking of the last, he states, "When I was a boy, I 
met this book, which was written, I think, by the father of Dr. 
Mather, of Boston. It gave me such a turn of thinking, as to 
have an influence on my conduct through life ; for I have always 
set a greater value on the character of a doer of good, than any 
other kind of reputation ; and if I have been a useful citizen, the 
public owes the advantage of it to that book." Franklin, again, 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 295 



has been tlie favorite of many yonng persons, who have had to 
thank his sagacious pages and his maxims of industry and economy 
for their success in life. It is beautiful thus to see wisdom become 
traditionary. " When at school," writes Dr. Alexander Murray, 
the celebrated orientalist," I read Paradise Lost, which from that 
time has influenced and inflamed my imagination. I cannot 
describe the ardor or various feelings with which I perused, 
studied, and admired that first-rate work." 

Speaking of this sublime production of Milton — a work every 
body admires, but scarce any body reads — what a vast mine of 
poetic wealth does it enclose ! Fuseli thought the second book of 
Paradise Lost the grandest effort of the human mind, the deep 
treasm'cs of which appear altogether too massive and gorgeous 
for the purpose of our modern mercenary and unpoetic age. 

Ossian was the favorite of two distinguished characters, who 
certainly appear very dissimilar in all other respects, except in that 
of their literary tastes — Xapoleon and Dr. Parr. The latter 
says, " I read Ossian when a boy, and was enamored with it. 
When at college, I again read Ossian with increased delight. I 
now, although convinced of the imposture, find pleasure in read- 
ing Macpherson." Hudibras was a great favorite with Dr. Blair, 
the theologian. 

Chaucer's text book was Aristotle's Philosophy : Shelley's 
Sophocles, and Keat's, also — a copy of which was found clasped 
to his breast when he was drowned. TToracr, Virgil and Horace 
have charmed and inspired a host of illustrious men. Bossuet, the 
French divine, was once found with Homer on his table, while 
preparing one of his famous orations, when he exclaimed to his 
visitor, "I have always Homer beside me when I compose my 
sermons ; for I love to light my lamp at the sun." Hume and 
Fox both sought their relaxation from severer toil, in luxuriating 
over the glowing pages of Virgil and Euripides. Burns' first and 
fondly cherished tome was the Life of William Wallace, and his 
next the Life of Hannibal. "Hannibal," says he, "gave my 



296 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



young ideas sncli a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and 
down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall 
enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a 
Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till 
the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest." Shakspeare has been 
the universal favorite of the sons of genius ; but the enthusiasm 
of one humble admirer, Joseph Blacket, the shoemaker poet, is 
too interesting to be passed over. In his twelfth year, Blacket 
witnessed Kemble's performance of Richatd III. Before this he 
had neither read nor beheld a play ; but thenceforth Shakspeare 
was his favorite author. "I robbed the pillow of its due," says 
he, " and in the summer season, would read till the sun had retired, 
then wait with anxious expectation for his earliest gleam, to dis- 
cover to my enraptured fancy the sublime beauties of that great 
master." In consequence of this close study of Shakspeare, a 
dramatic tone, observes his biographer, " pervaded the whole mass 
of his papers. I have traced it on bills, receipts, backs of letters, 
shoe-patterns, slips of paper-hangings, grocery wrappers, magazine 
covers, battalion orders for the volunteer corps of St. Pancras, 
wherein he served, and on various other scraps, on which his ink 
could scarcely be made to retain the impression of his thoughts, 
yet most of them crowded on both sides, and much interlined." 

Hazlitt's pet book was Rousseau's " Confessions." He confesses 
the intense delight he derived from its perusal at an eai'ly age. 
Swift's 2\ile of a Tub was the singular choice of Cobbett.* 



"He gives the foHouing account of his first meeting with it: — " Wheu only eleven 
years old, with three pence in my pocket — my whole fortune — I perceived, at Rich- 
mund, in a book-seller's window, this little book, marked, 'Price, three pence.' Its 
odd title excited my curiosity ; I bought it in i)lace of my supper. So impatient 
was I to examine if, that I got over into a field at the upper corner of Kew Gar- 
dens, and sat down to read, on the shady side of a hay-stack. The book was so 
difl'eient from anything I had read before — it was sometliing so new to my mind, 
that, though I could not at all understand some parts of it, still it delighted me 
beyond measure, and produced, what 1 have always considered, a sort of birth of 
intellect. I read on till it was dark, without any thought of supper or bed. When 
I could see no longer, I put it into my pocket, and fell asleep beside the stack, till 



1 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 29T 



Thompson's Seasons was Bloomfield's favorite selection : it was 
also Clare's ; and even the celebrated bibliographer, Dr. Dibdin, 
admits that he enjoyed many quiet readings of the latter, while 
seated in the deepening glooms of Bagley Wood. He designates 
the " Castle of Indolence " as one of tlie most enchanting poems 
in the language. Lord Byron's greatest favorites were Burton's 
Anatomy of Melancholy, D'Israeli's Illustrations of the Literary 
Character, and Scott's novels. The first work, he says, contains 
more solid information than any twenty other works ever compiled 
in the English language ; the second, he says, he read, perhaps, 
oftener than any, and that it had often been to him a consolation 
and a pleasure; of the last named, Scott's novels, he tells us — "I 
never travel without them ; they are a perfect library in themselves, 
a perfect literary treasure ; I could read them once a year with 
fresh pleasure." Johnson confessed that Old Burton was the first 
book that ever compelled him to rise from his bed earlier than he 
otherwise wished. How many, like Lord Oxford, have enjoyed 
the delicious humor of " Don Quixotte ?" 

Among the pleasures of the pen, may be classed the love of 
study, and a passion for reading. Says Burton on this head : 
" Looking about this world of books, I could even live and die 
among such meditations, and take more delight and true comfort 
of mind in them, than in all wealth or sport. There is a sweet- 
ness, which, as Circe's cup, bewitcheth a student : he cannot leave 
ofif, as well may witness those laborious hours, days and nights, 
spent in their voluminous treatises. So sweet is the delight of 
study." Richard de Bury was so enamored of his literary collec- 
tions, that he gave utterance to his love of books, under the title 
of his "Pkilohiblion:' 

Good old Bishop Hall thus writes on the pleasure of study : — 

the birds awaked me in the morning ; and then I started off, still reading my little 
book. I could relish nothing beside ; I carried it about with me wherever I went, 
till, when about twenty years old, I lost it In a box that fell overboard in the bay oi 
Fandy." 

13* 



298 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" What a heaven lives the scholar in, that at once, in one close 
room, can daily converse with all the glorious Martyrs and 
Fathers ! — that can single out, at pleasure, either sententious 
Tertullian, or grave Cyprian, or resolute Jerome, or flowing Chry- 
sostom, or divine Ambrose, or devout Bernard, or, who alone is 
all these, heavenly Augustine ; and talk with them, and hear their 
wise and holy counsels, verdicts, and resolutions. * * 
Let the world contemn us ; while we have these delights, we can- 
not envy them ; we cannot wish ourselves other than we are. 
* * Study itself is our life : from which we would 

not be barred for a world : how much sweeter, then, is the fruit 
of study, the conscience of knowledge ! in comparison whereof, 
the soul that hath once tasted it easily contemns all human comfort. 

" Go now, ye worldlings, and insult over our paleness, our need- 
iness, our neglect. Ye could not be so jocund, if you were not 
so ignorant : if you did not want knowledge, you would not over- 
look him that hath it. For me, I am so far from emulating you, 
that I profess I would as lief he a brute least, as an ignorant rich 
man." 

Mental' pleasures never cloy ; unlike those of the body, they are 
increased by repetition, approved by reason, and strengthened by 
enjoyment. 

The Scholar, in Chaucer, would rather have 

" At his bedde's head 
A twenty bokes, clothed in blacke and red, 
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie, 
Than robes rich, or fiddle, or psalterie." 

Holman, of the British navy, who, though wholly blind, pro- 
duced several amusing books of travels ; some years since he re- 
turned to England, from a tour of six years in Spain, Portugal, 
Egypt, etc. His notes of travel were usually put together by 
any fellow-traveler who would confer the service. 

"My great stimulus in writing," says Sl^f-lley. in one of his let- 



PLEASURES OF THE P E X . 299 



ters, " is to have the approbatiou of those who feel kindly towards 
me." Buffon says, his hours of compositiou were the most luxurious 
and delic^htful of his life. The ag-ouics and raptures of composi- 
tion are thus described by one wlio probably experienced both : — 

" When happiest fancy has inspired tlie strain, 
How oft the malice of one luckless word 
Pursues the enthusiast, to the social bound. 
Haunts him, belated, on the silent plains ; 
Yet he repines not, if his thoughts stand clear, 
At last, of hinderance and obscurity, 
Fresh as the star that crowns the hour of luorn." 

The pleasures of writing are among the chief incentives to 
authorship. There are millions of men, says Byron, who have 
never written a book, but few who have written only one. 

" Literature," says a modern essayist, " has its solitary pleasures, 
and they are many ; it has also its social pleasures, and they are 
more. Tlie Persian poet, Sardi, teaches a moral in one of his 
apologues. Two friends passed a summer day in a garden of 
roses ; one satisfied himself with admiring their colors and inhaling 
their fragrance ; the other filled his bosom with the leaves, and 
enjoyed at home, during several days, with his family, the deli- 
ciousness of the perfume. The first was the solitary, the second 
the social student. He wanders among many gardens of thought, 
but always brings back some flower in his hand. Who can esti- 
mate the advantages that may result from this toil, and this ap- 
phcatiou of it." 

The domestic life of virtuous genius has many dehghtful pic- 
tures to soothe and engage our eyes. Who would not like to see 
Richardson reading chapters of his novels to his listening friends, 
in his favorite grotto ; and Sterne, when by his own fireside with 
his daughter copying, and his wife knitting. He thus portrays 
the scene : — 

" I am scribbling away at my Tristram. These two volumes are, 
I think, the best I shall write as long as I live ; it is, in fact, my 



30(1 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY 



hobhy-licrse, and so much am I delighted with my uacle Toby's 
imaginative character, that I am become au enthusiast. My 
Lydia helps to copy for me, and my wife knits aud listens as I 
read her chapters." 

The domestic history of the amiable Cowper, notwithstanding 
his abiding melancholy, presents us with some placid and even 
glowing pictures : — when contemplated seated on his sofa, re- 
hearsing each newly constructed passage to his faithful Mary 
Unwin. • 

In their method of economizing time, we find a certain uniform- 
ity in the practice of authors and students, of gathering up their 
spare minutes. Some writers yielding to their pleasing toils over 
the midnight lamp ; others, again, devoting the early dawn of day 
to the sweet and silent communings of their muse. Says an 
anonymous A;\Titer : — 

" The morning has been especially consecrated to study by the 
example of the Christian scholar. Hackett calls it, very prettily, 
and in the spirit of Cowley, or Carew, the ' the mother of honey 
dews and pearls, which drop upon the paper from the student's 
pen.' The learned and excellent Bishop Jewell affords a very de- 
lightful specimen of the day of an English scholar, who not only 
lived among his books, but among men. He commonly rose at 
four o'clock, had private prayers at five, and attended the public 
service of the church in the cathedral at six. The remainder of 
the morning was given to study. One of his biographers has 
drawn a very interesting sketch of Jewell during the day. At 
meals, a chapter being first read, he recreated himself with scho 
lastic wars between young scholars ^^''hom he entertained at his 
table. After meals, his doors and ears were open to all suits and 
causes ; at these times, for the most pavt, he dispatched all those 
businesses which either his place or others' importunity forced 
upon him, making gain of the residue of this time for his study. 
About the hour of nine at night, he called his servants to an ac- 
count how they had spent the day, and admonished them accoi'd 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 301 



ingly. 'From this examination, to his stndy, (how long it is 
uncertain, oftentimes after midnight, ) and so to bed ; wherein, 
after some part of an author read to him by the gentlemen of his 
bed-chamber, commending himself to the protection of his Saviour, 
he took his rest.' "' 

" An acquaintance with the biography of illustrious musicians, 
proves that they reason incoherently, and with a short sight, who 
eternally talk of having the path of genius smoothed, and of set- 
ting it al)Ove circumstances ; for the lives of eminent men of this 
class display the most admirable energies developed, and the most 
enthusiastic projects brought to bear, pm'ely by the pressure of 
the very annoyances sought to be reniovcd. Possession of the 
creative faculty pre-supposes a superiority to adverse circumstances 
and ' low-thoughted care.' 

So it was with Fielding, Goldsmith, Steele, and many others 
honora1)le in literature: so also with Handel, Mozart, and Webci*, 
in music ; and it is one of the kindly recompenses of nature, by 
which she contrives to adjust, so equitably, the good and evil in 
this life. We owe that magnificent oratorio, the " Messiah," and 
others of his masterly productions, to the author's most adverse 
circumstances ; and it is doubted, whether men of genius gener- 
ally, would have achieved half as much as they have, had their 
circumstances in life been more proiMtious. Sir Walter Scott 
wrote his " Waverly," however, for love — not of pelf, but his pen. 
Not so his subsequent romances. Beaumont was of opinion that 
a man of genius could no more help putting his thoughts on paper, 
than a traveler in a burning desert can help drinking when he sees 
water. 

A word about book-stalls — establishments which, humble in 
themselves, have been the resort in past days of many a true 
son of genius. Our collective literary spoils are not exclusively 
to be found garnishing the shelves of the library, or the booksel- 
ler's store ; there are sundry other interesting little nooks and 
corners in the wide world as attractive to the real book-worm as 



302 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



the honey-pot to bees, where learned personages seek their literary 
aliment, and with as eager an appetite. 

Book-stalls were the cheap literature of a former age. Ben 
Jonson was probably a haunter of them, when a working brick- 
layer, he used to be seen with a trowel in one hand 'and a book in 
the other. Lackington was a constant frequenter of these lowly 
depositories of literary wares. The amusing anecdote of his book 
versus a leg of mutton, which his spouse commissioned him to pur- 
chase, his process of reasoning the matter, and final decision in 
favor of the food intellectual, reveals the first ghmpses of his cha- 
racter. Charles Lamb relates a somewhat similar story of his 
purchase of a folio, " Beaumont and Fletcher," at a book-stall. 
He had marked it longingly, but was delayed by want of money. 
He almost daily passed the place to see if the book was still there, 
fearful lest it should be gone. At length, late one Saturday night, 
having mustered the necessary sum — thirteen shillings — off he set 
to the shop, never dreaming of the possibility of its being shut. 
Finding this the case, and the worthy proprietor gone to his noc- 
turnal repose, he was not yet, however, to be baulked of his prey, 
for he presently commenced a rapping at the door, sufiBcient to 
have awakened the seven sleepers. The bookseller came out, at 
length, in the direst alarm, half-clad, and grumblingly took the 
thirteen pieces of silver in exchange for the twin dramatists, 
whom the delighted author carried away in high exultation and 
rapture. 

Stall-readers — a class of porers who don't buy — are as old as 
the days of John Milton, if not of still more remote origin, for he 
alludes to such. To quote the phrase of the London Quarterly, 
"to poor lovers of learning, old and young, these stalls are to the 
famishing, as tables spread in the wilderness." 

An early habit of frequenting book-stalls is never quite over- 
come, even after one has long become a purchaser in higher fields 
of literature. Leigh Hunt pleasantly confesses to this weakness, 
if such it be: 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 303 



"We still find ourselves halting (says he) at the humblest book- 
stall, as we used to do when fresh from school. In vain have we 
got cold feet at it, shivering, wind-beaten sides, and black-fingered 
gloves. The dusty old siren still delays us, charming with immor- 
tal beauty inside her homely attire, and singing songs of old poets. 
We still find om'selves diving into the sixpenny or threepenny box 
in spite of eternal disappointment, and running over whole windows 
of books, which we saw but three days before, for the twentieth 
time, and of which we could repeat by heart a good third of the 
titles. Nothing disconcerts us but absolute dirt, or an ill-tempered 
looking woman. We have ourselves precisely the same habits. 
Nothing delights us more than to overhaul some dingy tome, and 
read a chapter gratuitously. Occasionally, when we have opened 
some very attractive old book, we have stood reading for hours at 
the stall, lost in a brown study and worldly forgetfulness, and 
should probably have read on to tlie end of the last chapter, had not 
the vender of published wisdom offered, in a satirically polite way, 
to bring us out a chair. — ' Take a chair, sir : you must be tired.' " 

How many of the illustrious among the bibliographic fraternity 
in our own land, as well as in England, date their rise from these 
young beginnings. The grand recommendation of the book it its 
economy and accessibility. Those of small means know well how 
to appreciate all this, who, perhaps, when unable to replenish 
their slender collections, even on these advantageous terms, may, 
in the words of Kenyon, console themselves — 

"Oh, sweet 't will be — or hope would so believe — 
When close round life its fading tints of eve, 
To turn again our earlier volumes o'er, 
And love them then, because we 've loved before, - 
And inly bless the waning hour that brings 
A will to lean once more on simple things. 
If this be weakness, welcome life's decline ; 
If this be second childhood, be it mine." 

Sometimes rare specs are to be met with in the way of black 



304 SALAD FOE THE SOLITARY. 



letter books at these stalls. The veritable book-collectors know 
this. 

Irving observes in his paper on the mutations of litei'ature : 
" The fact that every age receives the impress of some peculiar 
development in its literary taste from its writers, cannot, we think, 
be denied. If we turn to that age so rife with noble authors — the 
Elizabethan — we have the distinctive features of terseness and 
vigor, combined with lofty beauty of imagination — a species of the 
arabesque in literature, peculiar to its great epoch. Ficticious 
writing, the drama, and poetry: seem to acquire a certain hue and 
character from the dominant habits and tastes of the times, in 
succession, unless, as is sometimes the case, they give form to new 
conceptions, which, in their turn, become extinct, and are usurped 
by new modes of expression, thought and feeling. The produc- 
tion of Edgeworth, Austin, and Mrs. Sherwood, made way for 
those of Scott, Bulwer, and James — works of a totally different 
school. And in poetry, in place of Milton, Quarles, Pope, Dry- 
den, and Cowper, we have had Moore, Byron, and Wordsworth ; 
while instead of Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
and Wycherley, we have a host of dramatists, who, however much 
below their grade of merit, yet they differ in many of their essen- 
tial characteristics. But perhaps the most obvious dissimilarity of 
style is observable among the essayists and graver writers — in 
philosophy, science, ethics, and religion, of which the ' Pilgrim's 
Progress' — almost the only conspicuous specimen that has de- 
scended to us from the wreck of the arch-despoiler — affords a suf- 
ficient proof ; while the same is seen in the Addisonian school of 
essayists, compared with our modern Hazlitts and Leigh Hunts. 
In spite of all mutations, the cadences of the true muse must live 
stUl in the sweet echoes that reverberate through the caverns of 
human thought. The poet's forms of speech are deathless, for in him 

• Language was a perpetual Orphic song, 
Which ruled, with Doedal harmonic, a throng 
Of thoughts and forms.' " 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 305 



Let US note some of the curious modes in which writers have 
indulged their quaint conceits and felicitous thoughts. 

About the middle of the seventeenth century, the scribes, or 
rather those whose ambition was not of the most soaring order, 
used to divert themselves, and rack their inventive powers by tortur- 
ing and twisting their verses into odd devices and shapes, expres- 
sive of the themes they discussed — as might be expected, to the 
serious detriment of their poetic merit. Many of these fantastic 
performances were of grotesque or even ludicrous description — such 
as fans and toilet-glasses and frocks, for love songs ; wine-glasses, 
bottles and flagons, for drinking songs ; pulpits, altars and tomb- 
stones, for religious verses and epitaphs, and even flying angels, 
Grecian temples and Egyptian Pyramids, for pati'iotic effusions. 
We read of one, much renowned in his day for the fabrication of 
these curious literary wares, yclept Benlowes, styled by his Cam- 
bridge contemporaries " the excellently learned." Of this eccen- 
tric knight of the quill Butler has some rather caustic criticisms. 
He says : 

" There is no feat of activity, nor gambols of wit, that ever was 
performed by man, from him that vaults on Pegasus, to him that 
tumbles through the hoop of an anagi-am, but Benlowes has got 
the mastery of it, whether it be high-rope wit or low-rope wit. 
He has all sorts of echoes, rebusses, chronograms, etc. As for 
altars and pyramids in poetry, he has outdone all men that way ; 
for he has made a gridiron and a frying-pan in verse, that, besides 
the likeness in shape, the very tone and sound of the words did 
perfectly represent the noise made by these utensils ! When he 
was a captain he made all the furniture of his horse, from the bit 
to the crupper, the beaten poetry, every verse being fitted to the 
proportion of the thing, with a moral allusion to the sense of the 
thing : as the bridle of moderation, the saddle of content, and the 
crupper of constancy ; so that the same thing was to the epigram 
and emblem, even as a mule is both horse and ass." 

Specimens of this species of emblematic poetry of the seventeenth 



306 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



century may be familiar to many ; yet we venture to subjoin 
a modern imitation in our own vernacular, which, we presume, 
will please not only the general reader, but all patrons of pure 
water : — 

THE WINE-GLASS. 

Who hath woe ? Who hath sorrow ? 

Who hath contentions ? Who 

hath wounds without cause ? 

Who hath redness of eyes ? 

They that tarry long at the 

wine ! They that go to 

seek mixed wine ! Look 

not thou upon the 

wine when it is red 

whenitgiveth its 

colour in tlie 

cup; 

when it 

moveth itself 

aright. 

At 

the last 

it biteth like a 

serpent, and stingeth like an adder. 

The reader will pardon our indulging an extract or two from 
productions which, for their exquisite melody or ideal beauty, are 
preeminently poetic : we give the following lines from Suckling's 
beautiful ode, — 

" Pr'ythee why so pale, fond lover, 
Pr'ythee why so pale .'" etc., 

has been quoted by Congreve as one of the most excellent in our 
tongue. 

The following, given in Lord Oxford's works by an old Eng- 
lish writer, is unquestionably one of the most exquisite and regular 
odes extant : 



I 



PLEASURES OF THE PEX. 307 



" Only tell her that I love, 

Leave the rest to her and fate, 
Some kind planet from above, 
May perhaps her pity move ; 

Lovers on their stars must wait, 
Only tell her that I love. 

Why, oh, why should I despair, 
Mercy 's pictured in her eye ; 

If she once vouchsafe to hear. 

Welcome hope and welcome fear ; 
She 's too good to let me die. 

Why, oh, why should I despair." 



The subjoined stanzas also speak for themselves in their delicacy 
of feeling and refined taste; the author is Samuel Daniel, who 
lived in the year of grace 1590 : 

•' Love is a sickness full of woes. 
All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows. 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed it sighing cries. 
Heigh ho ! 

Love is a torment of the minde, 

A tempest everlasting ;. 
And Jove hath made it of a kinde, 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so .> 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries. 
Heigh ho !" 

Coleridge pronounced the following sonnet on Night, by the 
Rev. Blanco White, the finest and most grandly conceived in our 
language : — 



308 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" Mysterious Night ! when our first parents knew 
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame — 

This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 

Yet 'neath a current of translucent dew, 
B^'hed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hespe.'us with the hosts of heaven came. 

And, lo ! Creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed, 
Within thy beams, sun ? or, who could find. 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 

Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife — 

If light can thus deceive, Avherefore not life ?" 

The favorite lines of Coleridge, on " Youth and Age," cannot 
fail to be read with pleasure : — 

" Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 

Where hope clung feeding like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a maying 

With Nature, Hope and Poesy, 
AVhen I was young ! 
When I was young ! ah, woeful when ! 
Ah for the change 'twist now and then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands. 

This body that does me grcMOus wrong, 
O'er airy clifi"s and glittering sands. 

How lightly then it flashed along — 
Like those trim skifi"s unknown of yore, 

On winding lakes, and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 

That fear no spite of wind or tide. 
* * » * 

Oh, youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'T is known that thou and I were one, 

I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be that thou art gone ! 

Thy vesper bell hath not yet tolled. 

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 309 



What strange disguise hast now put on, 
To make believe that thou art gone ?" 

Of the echo-poems, D'Israeli has some amusing specimens: the 
wit of these performances consisted in the construction of the Uist 
syllables, so that on being repeated, as if by an echo, it should 
convey a separate and pointed meaning. At times, this fancied 
repetition had an effect corresponding with that of the Irishman's 
echo, which not merely repeated his sentences, but varied them 
to make more fun, and even answered them: for when he said — 

" How — do — you — do ?" 
tis echo replied, 

" Pretty — well — I— thank you." 

Another species of literary diversion may be noticed in the 
curious combinations of words, mostly in Latin, by some of the 
early writers, in which, however, their wit is less discernible than 
their patient ingenuity. One of these has calculated that the 
following verses might be changed in their order, and re-combined 
in thirty-nine million nine hundred and sixteen thousand eight 
hundred different ways; and that to complete the writing out of 
this series of combinations, it would occupy a man ninety-one 
years and forty-nine days, if he wrote at the rate of twelve hun- 
dred verses daily. This is the wondrous distich : 

" Lex, grex, rex, spes, res, jus, thus, sal, sol bona lux, laus ! 
Mars, mors, sors, fraus, foex, styx, nox, crux, pus, mala cis, lis !" 

This singular jumble in poetry has been thus rendered into English: 

" Law, flocks, king, hopes, riches, right, incense, salt, sun good 
torch, praise to you. 
Mars, death, destiny, fraud, impurity, Styx, night, the cross, 
bad humors, and evil power, may you be condemned." 

Among the ingenious pastimes of poets, we must notice the fol- 
lowing, which is unique in its way — each word reads the same 
backwards and forwards : 



310 SALAD FOR THE SOLITAKT. 



" Odo tenet mulum, 

Madidara mappam tenet anna." 



I 



This couplet cost the author, says an old book, a world of foolish 
labor. 

The following Latin verse, which is composed with much inge- 
nuity, affords two very opposite meanings by merely transposing 
the order of the words : — 

" ProHpicimus modo, quod durabunt tempore longo, 
Fccdcra, nee patri;c pax cito diffugiet." 

" Diffugiet cito pax patria), nee foedora longo, 
Temi)orc durabunt, quod modo prospiciraus." 

Among our collection of ingenious literary productions. Dean 
Swift's celebrated Latin puns deserve a place; they will live with 
the language, for they have never been excelled. This species of 
composition, consists of Latin words, and allowing for false spell- 
ing, and the running the words into eacli other, contain good sense 
in English as well as Latin. For example, 

" Apud in is almi de si re, " A pudding is all my desire, 
Mimis trcs I no ver re qui re. My miatress I never require, 

Alo vcri findit a gestis, A lover I find it a jest is, 

Ilis niiseri no ver at rcstis." His misery never at rest ia." 

" Mollis abuti, " Moll is a beauty. 
Has an aouti, Has an acute eye, 

No lasso finis, No lass so fine is, 

Omni de armistress. Oh my dear mistress, 

Cantu disco ver, Can't you discover 

Meas alo ver ?" Mo as a lover ?" 

A very learned Frenchman, in conversatioa with Dr. Wallace, 
of Oxford, about the year 1G50, and author of a grammar of the 
English language written in Latin, after expatiating with the 
Doctor on the copiousness of the French language, and its rich- 
ness in derivations and synonymes, produced, by way of illustra- 
tion, the following four lines on rope-making : 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 311 



" Quand un cordier, cordant, veult cordcr un corde ; 
Pour sa corde corder, trois cordons ill accord ; 
Mais, si un des cordons de la corde decorde, 
Le cordon decordand fait decorder la corde." 

To show that the English language was at least equally rich and 
copius, Dr. Wallace immediately translated the French into as 
many lines of English, word for word, using the word twisi to 
express the French corde : 

" When a twister a twisting, will twist him a twist : 
For the twisting his twist, he three twines doth entwiet ; 
But if one of the twines of the twist do untwist. 
The twine that untwisteth, untwisteth the twist." 

Here were verbs, nouns, participles and synonymes to match the 
French. To show farther the power and versatility of the Eng- 
lish, the doctor added the four following lines, which continue the 
subject : 

" Untwisting the twine that untwisted between, 
He twirls with his twister the two in a twine ; 
Then twice liavinjj twisted the twines of the twine. 
He twisteth the twine he had twined in twain." 

The French funds had been exhausted at the outset. Not so with 
the English; for Dr. Wallace, pushing his triumph, added yet four 
other lines, which follow : 

" The twain that in twining before in the twine. 
As twins were intwisted, he now doth entwine ; 
•Twixt the twain intertwisting a twine m1)re between. 
He, twirling his twister, makes a twist of the twine." 

Dr. Adam Clarke, to whom we are indebted for the record of 
the precedmg trial of skill between the two philologists, adds in 
conclusion, that " he questions whether there is another language 
in the universe capable of such a variety of flections, or which 



312 SALAD FOE THE SOLITARY. 



can afiford so many terms and derivatives, all legitimate, coming 
from the same radix, without borrowing a single term from another 
tongue, or coining one for the sake of the sound; for there is not 
a word used by Dr. Wallace in these lines which is not purely 
Anglo-Saxon, not one exotic being entertained." 

The following lines, from Gray, "The ploughman homeward 
plods his weary way," has been found to admit of eighteen trans- 
positions, without destroying the rhyme or altering the sense ; 
the reader will be content with the following : 

" The weary ploughman plods his homeward way. 

The weary ploughman homeward plods his way. 

The ploughman, weary, plods his homeward way. 

The ploughman, weary, homeward plods his way. 

Weary the ploughman plods his homeward way. 

Weary the ploughman homeward plods his way. 

Homeward the ploughman plods his weary way. 
■ Homeward the weary ploughman plods his way. 

Homeward the ploughman, weary, plods his way. 

The homeward ploughman weary plods his way. 

The homeward ploughman plods his weary way." 

Southey, it may be remembered, so highly esteemed Cowper's 
beautiful Lines to his Mother's Portrait, that he is reported to 
have said, he would willingly barter all he had written for their 
authorship. This is high tribute to the amiable yet melancholy 
muse of Cowper ; but we are digressing. We therefore return to 
our anomalous and curious selections ; and first, beg to present an 
ingeni'is piece of literary Mosaic : 

" The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
In eVery clime, from Lapland to Japan ; 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray, 
The proper study of mankind is man. 

Tell ! for you can, what is it to be wise, 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain .' 

' The man of Ross !' each lisping babe replies, 
And drags, at each remove, a length'ning chain. 



PLEASURES OK THE PEN. 313 



All ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 

Far as the solar walk or milky-way ? 
Procrastination is the thief of time, 

Let Hercules liiniself do what he may. 

'Tis education forms the common mind, 
The feast of reason and the flow of soul ; 

I must be cruel only to be kind, 

And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. 

Syphax ! I joy to meet thee thus alone, 

Where'er I roam, whatever lands I see ; 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown, 

In maiden meditation fancy free. 

Farewell ! and whereso'cr thy voice be tried. 
Why to yon mountain turns the gazing eye, 

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side. 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, 
Man never is, but always to be blest." 

The following is another S23ecimen of literary ingenuity. Two 
words of opposite meanings, spelled with exactly the same letters, 
form a Telestick ; that is, the letters beginning the lines — when 
united — were to give one of the words, and the letters at the end 
were to produce the other — thus : 

" U-nite and untie are the same — so say yo-U 
N-ot in wedlock, I wean, has the unity bee-N 
I-n the drama of marriage, each wandering gou-T 
T-o a new face would Qy — all except you and I, 
E-ach seeking to alter the spe/l in their scen-E." 

The following specimen of alliteration evinces more ingenuity 

than anything else of the kind extant : 

14 



314 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



THE SEIGE OF BELGRADE. 



" An Austrian Army, Awfully Arrayed, 
Boldly, By Battery, Beseiged Belgrade ; 
Cossack Commanders Cannonading Come, 
Dealing Destruction's Devastating Doom ; 
Every Endeavor Engineers Essay, 
For Fame, For Fortune Fighting — Furious Fray ! 
Generals 'Gainst Generals Grapple — Gracious God ! 
How Honors Heav'n Heroic Hardihood ! 
Infuriate, Indiscriminate, In 111, 
Kinsmen Kill Kindred, Kindred Kinsmen Kill ! 

Labor Low Levels Longest, Loftiest Lines ; 

Men March 'Mid Mounds, 'Mid Moles, 'Mid Murd'rous Mines ; 

Now Noisy, Noxious Numbers Notice Naught 

Of Outward Obstacles Opposing Ought ; 

Poor Patriots ! Partly Purchas'd, Partly Press'd, 

Quite Quaking, Quickly ' Quarter, Quarter ' Quest. 

Reason Returns, Religious Right Redounds, 

Suwarrow Stops Such Sanguinary Sounds ; 

Truce To Th^e Turkey ! Triumph To Thy Train ! 

Unjust, Unwise, Unmerciful Ukraine ! 

Vanish Vain Victory ! — Vanish Victory Vain ! 

Why Wish We Warfare ? Wherefore Welcome Were 

Xerxes, Ximenas, Xanthus, Xavier, 

Yield, Yield, Ye Youths! Ye Yoemen Yield Your Yell! 

Zeno's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's Zeal; 

Attracting All, Arms Against Acts Appeal. 

As affording an illustration of the union of sound and sense, take 
the following well-known lines : 

" When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The words, too, labor, and the line moves slow : 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, — 
Flies o'er the imbending corn, and skims along the main." 

Our last will not be deemed the least in wit, point or power. 
It is from the pen of the well-known, and lamented Thomas Hood; 
and it is worthy of the inimitable humorist. The subject is the 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 315 



month, November, — in England synonymous with fogs, long visages, 
and suicides. Every line begins with the first syllable of the 
word, which, after so many lispings, the last line spells outright : 

" No sun — no moon ! 
No morn — no noon — 
No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — 
No sky — no earthly view — 
No distance looking blue — 

No roads — no streets — no 'tother side the way — 
No end to any row — 
No indication vrhere the crescents go— 
No tops to any steeple — 

No recognition of familiar people — 

No courtesies for showing 'em — 
No knowing 'em — 

No travelers at all — no locomotion — 

No inkling of the way — no motion — 

' No go ' by land or ocean — 

No mail — no post — 

No news from any foreign coast — 

No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 
No company — no nobility — 

No warmth — no cheerfulness — no healthful ease — 
No comfortable feel in any member — 

No shade — no shine — no butterflies — no bees — 
No fruits — no flowers — no leaves — no birds — 
No-vember ! 

We close our citations with a remarkable instance of involun- 
tary poetic prose ; it is from the distinguished author of the 
" Sketch Book." The passage occurs near the commencement of 
the sixth book of his humorous History of New York, where it 
stands as plain prose : 



316 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



" The gallant warrior starts from soft repose, 
From golden visions and voluptuous ease ; 
Where, in the dulcet ' piping time of peace,' 
He sought sweet solace after all his toils. 
No more in Beauty's syren lap reclined. 
He weaves fair garlands for his lady's brows ; 
No more entwines with flowers his shining sword, 
Nor through the live-long summer's day 
Chaunts forth his love-sick soul in madrigals. 
To manhood roused, he spurns the amorous flute, 
Dofis from his brawny back the robe of peace. 
And clothes his pampered limbs in panoply of steel. 
O'er his dark brow, where late the myrtle waved, 
Where wanton roses breathed enervate love. 
He rears the beaming casque and nodding plume ; 
Grasps the bright shield and ponderous lance. 
Or mounts with eager pride his fiery steed, 
And burns for deeds of glorious chivalry." 

A recent Scottish critic, referring to authorship, and its revenue 
of literary pleasures, says : 

" The blind bard, who ' on the Chian strand beheld the Hiad 
and Odyssey rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea,' still, after 
thousands of years, is listened to with reverence, and the soul of 
Homer is born again in every school boy who devours him. Plato, 
down the dark avenue of centuries, still speaks with a tone of 
authority ; and his works, though seldom read at one time by 
more than twenty persons in the whole earth, ' Yet,' says Emer- 
son, * for the sake of those few persons, they come duly down to 
us, as if God brought them in his hand.' Shakspeare's dust is in 
Stratford ; his genius is shaking the stages of the world. Scott 
lies helpless and solitary in Dryburgh ; but his works have wings ; 
and where the spot so secret, or the isle so isolated, which they 
have not visited ? To attempt to portray the joys its possessors 
feel were a presumptuous task. But who has not felt the pleasure 
it imparts — the rapture into which it sometimes elevates the self- 
possession into which it sometimes calms — the sublime sorrow, not 



PLEASURES OF THE PEN. 



31t 



to be exchanged for a millenium of common delights, into which it 
often melts — the mirth into which it sometimes kindles ? Or, if 
you would see the pleasures of genius, as felt in their most ecstatic 
form, see Burns striding along the banks of the Nith, composing 
Tam O'Shanter, or rather that poem coming upon him, the tears 
of joy coursing down his cheeks, and every feature and every tone 
testifying to the truth of the inspiration ; or if you would see 
them in all their pensive grandeur, behold the same poet in the 
cold September barn-yard, on the eve commemorative of that ou 
which his ' Mary from his soul was torn ;' when from the stack- 
side he eyed the planet which shone above him like another moon, 
and pom-ed out his impassioned song ' To Mary in Heaven.' One 
such example is worth a thousand abstract assertions." 




4 




SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 

" Sleep is Death's younger brother, and so like him, that I never dare trust 
bim without my prayers." — Sir T. Browne. 

" Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in life's feast." — Shakspeare. 

A SUBJECT SO trite, we fear, will be likely to inspire the reader, 
at the very outset, with a feeling of drowsiness ; so that if no 
other object shall be attained by its presentation, it may possibly 
serve to lull some wearied one to oblivious repose, and thus 
beguile him of a portion of the irksome realities of life which 
may have proved even less endurable. The indulgence of the 
habit of sleep is coeval with the existence of man — Adam, it 
will be remembered, was quietly enjoying a " deep sleep," when 
his rib was transformed into the glorious creature Eve, his espoused 
wife. This is, of course, the most remarkable instance of sound 
sleeping upon record : we have read of many extraordinary cases 
of trance, somnambulism and dreams, but none to be compared 
with his. When, wearied with the day's drudgery and toil, many 
have, with Sancho, exclaimed, "blessings on him that first invented 
sleep ; it wraps a man all round like a cloak I" Sleep is a com- 
mon blessing, none the worse for being common. Animals as well 



SLEEP AND ITS iMYSTERIES. 319 



as raau participate in the luxury of "solemn night's repose." 
After the day's dusty toils, how grateful is it 

" To stretch the tired limbs and aching head 
Upon our own delightful bed." 

There is something inexpressibly grateful in the feeling that 
superinduces the sweet oblivion called sleep — the spirit jaded with 
the excitement and stir of life, and the body wearied with the 
busy doings of the day, the quiet hour of wonted repose steals 
upon us like a charm, and we yield ourselves to its mollifying and 
soothing influence as the panacea of every ill. It is, moreover, as 
Young styles it : 

'* Man's rich restorative ; his balmy bath. 
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play 
The various movements of this nice machine. 
Which asks such frequent periods of repair, 
When tired with vain rotations of the day, 
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn." 

That genial essayist, Leigh Hunt, furnishes some pleasant 
thoughts upon the subject, from which we cannot refrain citing a 
passage. " It is a delicious moment, certainly," he writes, " that 
of being well nestled in bed, and feeling that you shall drop 
gently to sleep. The good is to come, not past ; the limbs have 
just been tired enough to render the remaining in one posture 
delightful ; the labor of the day is done. A gentle failure of the 
perceptions comes creeping over one ; the spirit of consciousness 
disengages itself more and more, with slow and hushing degrees, 
like a mother detaching her hand from her sleeping child ; the 
mind seems to have a l^almy lid over it, like the eye ; 'tis closing 
— more closing — 'tis closed. The mysterious spirit has gone to 
make its airy rounds." 

Richerand observes, " the exciting causes to which our organs 



320 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



are subject during the day, tend progressively to increase their 
action. The throbbings of the heart, for instance, are more fre- 
quent at night than in the morning : and this action gradually 
accelerated, would soon be carried to such a degree of activity as 
to be inconsistent with life, if its velocity were not moderated at 
intervals by the recurrence of sleep." 

The day emphatically belongs to earth : we yield it without 
reluctance to care and labor. We toil, we drudge, we pant, we 
play the hack-horse; we do things smilingly from which we recoil in 
secret ; we pass by sweet spots and rare faces that our very heart 
yearns for, without betraying the effect it costs; and thus we drag 
through the twelve long hours, disgusted almost, but gladdened 
withal, that the mask will have an end, and the tedious game be 
over, and our visor and our weapons be laid aside. But the night 
is the gift of heaven ; it brings freedom and repose ; its influence 
falls coolly and gratefully upon the mind as well as the body ; and 
when drops the extinguisher upon the light which glimmers upon 
the round, untouched pillow, we, at the same time, put out a 
world of cares and perplexities. 

But for this wonted repose how monotonous and wearisome 
would life become ; not man alone ; but all nature would begin 
to faint and die, like the seared foliage of autumn. This necessity 
for periodical repose seems to be an essential law of all animated 
life, with scarce a single exception. The feathered tribe cease 
their minstrelsy as the shades of eventide spread over the face of 
all things — a type of sleep itself with its closed eyelids, all seek 
their needed rest, as the poet sings : 

" All but the wakeful nightingale — 
Who all night long her am'rous discant sings." 

The wearied sons of toil, as well as the pampered minions of 
luxury, alike demand this quiet respite from the cares and business 
of the feverish day. 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 321 



" Come, with thy soft embrace, 
Fair solace of a toiling race. 
And hush the tumult of the heart to peace ; , 

Draw thy warm folds together. 
Kiss me, thou dearest almoner, 
And tell the storm that howls without, to cease. 

Upon thy loving breast 

Pale sorrow sinks to rest, 
And thou art she who dries the mourner's tears. 

Hushing the bereaved one's sigh, 

And with tliine own sweet melody 
Lulling to kind repose the heart's unquiet fears. 

How soft thy kind arms are ! 

And like sweet warbling sounds afar 
That steal upon the night's breath to the soul, 

Melting its fire to tenderness : 

So, to thine own pure gentleness. 
We yield as loving slaves to thy serene control." 

Some indolent folk, however, are not content with the just lim- 
itation of Heaven with respect to the allotment of its indul- 
gence, they are for abridging the hours that should be devoted to 
the duties of active life. Says Dr. Robertson: 

" Habit influences, in some degree, the amount of sleep that is 
required. It should be said, however, that it is never well to 
withhold any of the revenue that is justly due to the drowsy god. 
A man may accustom himself to take so little sleep, as to be 
greatly the loser thereby in his waking moments. It may be 
commonly observed, that those persons who spend less time in 
sleep than is usually found needful by others of the same age, 
and strength, and occupation, consume a much larger portion of 
their days than others do in a kind of dreamy vacancy, a virtual 
inactivity of mind and body." 

The hours expended in sleep are not the only hours that might 
be justifiably deducted from the sum total of the life, as having 
been lost to it ; numbers of moments are daily spent in an abso- 

H* 



322 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



lute inaction of mind and body, and sleep cannot be robbed of its 
dues without adding largely, and in a greater proportion than the 
time habitually stolen from the sleep, to that which is wasted in 
such waking reveries. 

In fact, sleep once in twenty-four hours is as essential to the 
existence of mammalia as the momentary respiration of fresh air. 
The most unfavorable condition for sleep cannot prevent its ap- 
proach. Coachmen slumber on their coaches, and couriers on 
their horses, while soldiers fall asleep on the field of battle, amidst 
all the noise of artillery and the tumult of war. During the re- 
treat of Sir John Moore, several of the British soldiers were 
reported to have fallen asleep on the march, and yet they con- 
tinued walking onward. The most violent passions and excite- 
ment of mind cannot preserve even powerful minds from sleep ; 
thus Alexander the Great slept on the field of Arabela, and Na- 
poleon on that of Austerlitz. Even stripes and torture cannot 
keep off sleep, as criminals have been known to sleep on the 
rack. Noises, which serve at first to drive away sleep, soon 
become indispensable to its existence ; thus a stage-coach, stop- 
ping to change horses, wakes all the passengers. The proprietor 
of an iron forge, who slept close to the din of hammers, forges, 
and blast furnaces, would awake if there was any interruption to 
them during the night; and a sick miller, who had his mill stopped 
on that account, passed sleepless nights till the mill resumed its 
noise. Homer, in the Iliad, elegantly represents sleep as over- 
coming all men, and even the gods, except Jupiter alone. 

A remarkable instance of death, caused by want of sleep, was 
recently reported by a British officer. It was of a Chinese mer- 
chant, who had been convicted of murdering his wife, and was 
sentenced to die by being totally deprived of his necessary sleep. 
This singular and painful mode of extinguishing an earthly exist- 
ence, was carried into execution at Amoy, under the following 
circumstances : 

The condemned was placed in prison under care of three of 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTEKIES. 323 



the police guard, who relieved each other every alternate hour, 
and who prevented the prisoner from falling asleep for a single 
moment, night or day. He thus lived for nineteen days, without 
enjoying any repose. At the commenccnieut of the eighth day his 
sufferings were so severe, that he implored the authorities to kill 
him. 

There are, it is true, many provoking causes that might be ad- 
duced in extenuation of the weakness ; such, for instance, as 
excessive bodily or mental exertion, a very dry argument, an im- 
perfect state of health, or a very prolix and prosy preacher. 
Some one of these inflictions may have beset the reader, who, 
perhaps, has had to confess their somniferous tendency. There 
are others, again, who, from the too free use of the knife and fork, 
become, after their hearty repast, the unconscious victims of simi- 
lar narcotic influence ; these, however, ought to be treated with 
little leniency, they should rather be subjected to a deduction from 
the night's repose, in the exact ratio of the time they thus filch 
from the day's active duties. There are others who enjoy their 
quiet siesta in an easy chair with great relish ; the process saves the 
necessity of locomotion, and the trouble of divesting oneself of 
our superincumbent drapery. This mode is not, however, exactly 
orthodox, and therefore we need not weary the reader with any 
common-place discussion upon it. Sleep has many vagaries, one 
of which is the strange fancy everybody yields to, of throwing 
one's limbs into all imaginable postures and fantastic attitudes in 
bed : nobody ever thinks of passing a night with his body straight, 
the oblique curvature, or semi-circular form, being far more 
generally adopted. Sleep has been styled a type of death, but it 
has its aspects of comedy and farce also. There are said to be 
some who sleep with one eye open ; others with both, occasionally. 
The story of the Irishman who took a small mirror to bed with 
him, favors the conceit : he stated as the reason of his so doing, 
that he wished to see how he looked when asleep. There are 
some persons who sleep with their eyes open ; and a man may 



324 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



stand before another man iu such a situation, with a lighted candle 
in his hand, so that the image of that person who has the light 
may be vividly depicted on the retina of the sleeping man ; but 
does he see ? — is he sensible of it ? No ! This has been magni- 
fied into a wonder ; whereas, it only proves what Dr. Darwin long 
since asserted, that sensation does not depend upon impressions 
made upon the nerves, but upon actions excited in them. Arouse 
the slumberer ; awake him that sleepeth ; bring in the natural ex- 
citement into his nerves and muscles, and he would exclaim ! 
"Bless me ! how came you here at this time of night !" 

What shall we say about snorecs, — those nuisances of drowsy 
neighbors. They will most frequently be found to be those 
who have failed to make "a noise in the world" in their waking 
moments. 

If there are few who sleep with their eyes open, there are 
more who sometimes shut their eyes to open their mouth ; and con- 
sequently they generally cry out for water in the morning. We 
had forgot, in speaking of such as divert themselves by curious at- 
titudinizing, to refer to the great class of desperate kickers : those 
strange bipeds who — cold weather or warm — will kick the clothes 
from their bed, and who seem to suppose that the bed was de- 
signed for muscular exercise, instead of repose. 

People fall asleep with more or less rapidity, according to their 
constitutional pre-disposition to somnolency, and state of health. 
There is one peculiarity connected with the phenomenon called 
sleep, — we refer to the fact that the very effort we make to induce 
repose, invariably tends to prevent its indulgence, while the mo- 
ment we cease to make the .effort, is the time when it usually over- 
takes us. 

There is, moreover, something very mysterious about this appa- 
rent suspension of conscious existence ; indeed almost all we know 
about this physiological mystery is of a negative kind, — writers 
on the subject finding it difficult to arrive at any satisfactory con- 
clusion as to its characteristics, or the nature of the physical 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 325 



change in the nervous system by which it is produced. While 
under its influence the will seems to be in a state of suspension, 
both the imagination and memory often still retain their sway. 
In the functions which serve for the support of life there is no 
material interruption ; while the physical frame itself becomes 
insensible, to a great extent, to external objects. Thought makes 
excursions without limitation, and travels with wondei'ful velocity; 
and yet the voluntary functions seem powerless. 

" Sleep," says Mr. McNish, "produces rather important changes 
in the system. The rapidity of the cumulation is diminished, and, 
as a natural consequence, that of respiration: the force of neither 
function, however is impaired; but, on the contrary, rather in- 
creased. Vascular action is diminished in the brain and organs 
of volition; while digestion and absorption all proceed with 
increased energy. Sleep lessens all the secretions, with one excep- 
tion — that of the skin. Sleep produces peculiar effects on the 
organs of vision. On opening the eyelids cautiously, the pupil is 
seen to be contracted; it then quivers with an irregular motion, 
as if disposed to dilate ; but at length ceases to move, and remains 
in a contracted state till the person awakes." 

Whatever we may be left to guess about the nature of sleep, 
the fact that it is a necessary part of our existence is abundantly 
evident ; and the more uninterruptedly we enjoy the peaceful obli- 
vion, the greater is the amount of recruited strength and vigor 
we derive from it. It is during the hours of sleep that the elec- 
tric battery of the nervous system becomes replenished with invig- 
orated powers, and the body with renewed vital force. To ensure 
the full immunities of refreshing slumber, two things especially are 
requisite — a regularity as to the time of its indulgence, which 
should always commence an hour or two before midnight; and the 
most rigid abstinence from " hearty suppers." "An hour's sleep 
before midnight is worth two after," and the maxim is easily to be 
verified and tested. It is according to the analogy of all nature, 
and it is better to obey nature's law than to infringe it. The gay 



326 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



votary of fashion and folly, barter health and real enjoyment for 
a pallid cheek and wasted form, simply because the arbitrary 
usage of polite life, in seeking to adopt some exclusive code, per- 
vert the order of nature, by converting the hours beneficently 
assigned to repose to the fascinations of the ball, the theatre, and 
the brilhant soiree. Such persons usually are not only late in 
going to then- bed, but late also in leaving it. 

The habit of early rising is not only conducive to health, but it 
has been as clearly shown to tend to longevity; — numerous 
instances in proof of this are upon record. Some even carry the 
practice to the extreme. Frederic II., King of Prussia, rose very 
early in the morning, and, in general gave a very short part of 
his time to sleep. But as age increased upon him, his sleep 
was broken and disturbed; and when he fell asleep towards the 
morning, he frequently missed his usual early hour of rising. This 
loss of time, as he deemed it, he bore very impatiently, and gave 
strict orders to his attendants never to suifer him to sleep longer 
than four o'clock in the morning, and to pay no attention to his 
unwillingness to I'ise. One morning, at the appointed time, the 
page whose turn it was to attend him, and who had not been long 
in his service, came to his bed and awoke him. " Let me sleep 
but a little longer," said the monarch; " I am still much fatigued." 
" Your majesty has given positive orders I should wake you so 
early," replied the page. " But another quarter of an hour more." 
"Not one minute," said the page: "it has struck four; I am 
ordered to insist upon your majesty's rising." " Well," said the 
king, "you are a brave lad; had you let me sleep on, you would 
have fared ill for your neglect." Dean Swift says that " he never 
knew any man to rise to eminence who lay in bed of a morning;" 
and Dr. Franklin, in his peculiar manner, further remarks, that 
"he who rises late may trot all day, but never overtake his 
business." 

Perhaps the most concise rule for limiting the hours of sleep, 
may be found in the following ; 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 32t 



" Nature requires five, 
Custom gives seven. 
Laziness takes nine. 
And wicliedness eleven." 



It requires some strength of resolution to turn out of one's 
warm bed of a cold winter morning, it must be confessed : 
we have, it is true, to argue the case in our mind, and then pre- 
pare for the encounter. The great danger, however, usually 
consists in our entertaining the reasoning process to too great a 
length, while comfortably ensconced beneath the warm bed cov- 
ering. Those too, who give advice on this matter, with the full 
consciousness of its verity, are not unfrequently found among 
delinquents in its practical application. Who would think, for 
example, that Thomson was such an inveterate sluggard, who 
exclaims in his Seasons: 

" Falsely luxurious ! will not man awake ? 
And springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent morn, 
To meditation due, and sacred song ? 
For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise ? 
To lie in dead oblivion, losing half the fleeting moments 
Of too short a life ? Total extinction of the enlightened soul .' 
Who would in such a glooming state remain 
Longer than nature craves, while every muse. 
And every blooming pleasure wait without, 
To bless the wildly devious morning walk !" 

Sir Thomas Brown, in a hymn he composed on the subject, has 
the following lines : 

♦' Sleep is a death : make me try, 
By sleeping, what it is to die ; 
And as at last I lay my head 
Upon my grave, as now my bed, 
Where'er I rest, great God let me 
Awake again, at last with thee. 
And thus assured behold I lie 
Securely, or to wake or die. 



328 SALAD FOR THK SOLITARY, 



These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
I now do wake to sleep again. 
come that hour, when I shall never 
Know sleep again, but wake for ever." 



Thus much for the subject of sleep: we now have a few things 
to say on that of dreams. The phenomena of dreaming which 
are so remarkable, and in some respects so inexplicable, seem to 
be a species of pastime or relaxation of the mental powers during 
the temporary suspension or repose of those of the body. This 
subject has engaged the curious speculations of writers of every 
age ; and various and conflicting have been the hypotheses deduced 
concerning it. Dreams seem to have been the divinely appointed 
media of communication in the patriarchal age, and it was doubt- 
less owing to these real events, that a superstitious veneration for 
dreams has obtained in all times among the nations of the world. 

The Greeks and Romans divided the action of the mind, in 
sleep, into classes, — the dream, the vision, the oracle, the insom- 
nium, and the phantasm, of which the three first were supposed 
to be divinely inspired. To such height had the superstitious feel- 
ing with regard to dreams arisen in Rome, in the age of Augus- 
tus Caesar, that this monarch procured the passage of a law, oblig- 
ing all who had dreamed any thing respecting the State, to make 
it publicly known. 

Campbell has some expressive lines on the subject, which we 
quote from memory: 

" Well may sleep present us fictions, 

Since our waking moments teem 
With such fanciful convictions 

As make life itself a dream ? 
Half our daylight faith's a fable, — 

Sleep disports with phantoms too, 
Seeming in their turn, as stable 

As the world we wake to view !" 

Dreams are said to be in part a reflex of our waking thoughts; 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 329 



yet while the imagination is allowed to indulge without the re- 
straint of reason, its wildest freaks, they present but rarely a true 
transcript of reality. Says a recent Avritcr on this topic: 

" Dreams dispute with our waking thoughts, the empire of the 
soul; and though the world may hang about that soul the fetters 
of avarice, or surround it with the strong meshes of guilty habit, 
tlie body's torpor relieves it of the checks and controlling powers 
of its waking activity. Thus it conjures up its unsubstantial 
pageants; the hopes and phantasies of untold aspirations take 
unto themselves forms and fashions of beauty and reality, which 
delude the sleeper for awhile, then give place to shapes as 
shadowy and transitory as themselves. 

" But over the pathway of our dreams pass visions of evil as 
well as good. To the person of low principles, and a life conform- 
ing, they come in shapes that threaten and appeal. Lean over, 
the sleeping culprit, and watch his writhings, as he listens to the 
accusations that come to him in his dreams; the dark deeds of 
crime and profligacy which memory bring up before him in their 
horrid array; then turn to the cradle of the infant, who smiles 
while sleeping, to the angels that hover round and guard it. 

"These dreams are the exponents of the soul's character, and 
let us look well to our lives if we would have them pleasant." 

We may here just mention, in passing, that Lord Brougham 
deduces an argument from the phenomena of dreaming for the 
mind's independence of matter, and capacity of existence without 
it. This process of reasoning, however, has been deemed liable to 
objections, since, upon the same hypothesis, the souls of some of 
the lower animals, many of which are known also to dream, may 
be immortal also. Without noticing the several philosophical 
theories suggested by this mysterious condition of the mental func- 
tions, we shall simply enumerate a few brief facts and opinions 
respecting dreams and dreamers which we glean from reliable 
sources. The clearness of some- person's nocturnal impressions 
appear very remarkable, and even the reasoning and inventive 



330 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



powers are no less astonishing. Thus Condorcet is said to have 
attained the conclusions of some of his most abstruse unfinished 
calculations, in his dreams. Franklin makes a similar admission 
concerning some of his jDolitical projects, which in his waking 
moments, sorely puzzled him. Dreams are, according to physiol- 
ogists, akin to delirium. 

Dr. Abercombie states, that there is a strange analogy between 
dreaming and insanity; and he defines the difference between the 
two states to be, that, in the latter, the erroneous impression being 
permanent, affects the conduct; whereas, in dreaming, no influence 
on the conduct is produced, because the vision is dissipated on 
awaking. " This definition," says Macnish, " is nearly, but not 
wholly, correct; for, in somnambulism and sleep-talking, the con- 
duct is influenced by the prevailing dream. Dr. Rush, remarks, 
that a dream may be considered as a transient paroxysm of 
delirium, and delu'ium as a permanent dream." 

Dr. Winslow observes: " Lively dreams are a sign of the excite- 
ment of nervous action. Soft dreams are a sign of slight irrita- 
tion of the brain ; often in nervous fever, announcing the approach 
of a favorable crisis. Frightful dreams are a sign of determina- 
tion of blood to the head. Dreams of blood and red objects are 
signs of inflammatory conditions. Di-eams about rain and water 
are often signs of diseased mucous membranes, and dropsy. 
Dreams of distorted forms are frequently a sign of abdominal 
obstructions, and disorder of the liver. Dreams, in which the 
patient sees any part especially suffering, indicate diseases of that 
part. Dreams about death often precede apoplexy, which is con- 
nected with determination of blood to the head. The nightmare, 
with great sensitiveness, is a sign of determination of blood to the 
chest." 

To prove that, in the sleeping state, the several senses and 
organs often successively become dormant, and in a very unusual 
degree, it has been alledged that a slight heat applied to the soles 
of the feet will excite dreams of burning coals, fires, volcanoes, etc. 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 331 



A person who had a blister applied to his head dreamed of 
scalping by the Indians. Dr. Smellie give» several facts with 
regard to persons in whom dreams would be excited by whispering 
in their ears. Dr. Beattie adds similar testimony. 

The stomach has often considerable influence in producing 
dreams: persons who have been deprived of their usual food 
generally dream of eating. Baron Trenck, when confined in his 
dungeon, and almost dead with hunger, every night in his dreams, 
beheld the luxurious and hospitable tables of Berlin. The dreams 
of persons who have been nearly starved to death are described 
as being peculiarly brilliant and delightful. Byron, when in Italy, 
with some of the authors of the liberal school, used to abstain 
from food for some days, with a view to produce the same effect 
on their imaginations. Opium and other soporifics produce 
dreams; and it has been observed that the sanguine more fre- 
quently dream than the phlegmatic; and that the nature of the 
dreams generally partakes of the temperament of the dreamer. 

The dreams of those born blind are very curious ; and they 
have much difficulty in describing the sensations they experience 
during sleep. Dr. Blacklock described it thus : " When awake, 
he could distinguish persons in three ways : by hearing them 
speak, by feeling their heads and shoulders, or by attending, with- 
out the aid of speech, to the sound and manner of their breathing, 
But in sleep the objects which presented themselves were more 
vivid, and without the intervention of any of the three modes." 

And not only are dreams affected by the state of the body, but 
it is certain that the action of mind, when asleep, may have a 
very considerable and permanent effect upon the body. Thus, in 
1T48, Archdeacon Squire read before the Royal Society an 
account of the case of Henry Axford, of Devizes, in Wiltshire, 
who, at twenty-eighty years of age, through a violent cold, became 
speechless, and continued dumb for four years, until July, 1T41, 
when, being asleep, he dreamed that " he was fallen into a furnace 
of boiling wort : this put huu into so great an agony of fright, 



332 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



that, he actually did call out aloud, and recovered the use of his 
tongue from that moment as effectually as ever. 

Bishop Sanderson quaintly thus moralizes upon dreams: "There 
is to be made a lawful, yea, and a very profitable use, even of our 
ordinary dreams, and of the observing thereof. Not at all by 
foretelling particulars of things to come, but by taking from them 
some reasonable conjectures in the general of the present estate 
both of our bodies and souls." 

Dreamland is one of the mysteries of sleep — its domain is vast 
and independent of time and space. In a moment the mental 
vision leaps over broad seas and inaccessible mountains ; our 
antipodes become our near neighbors, and the dead of by-gone 
years, by some strange incantation, re-visit us. We run over a 
life-story in a few seconds of time, and we seem to be invested 
with the attribute of ubiquity — thus we annihilate both time and 
distance. Dreams are sometimes felicitous and sometimes ter- 
rific. Some foreshadow our earnest wishes, others our direst 
fears and forebodings. Some are of a texture so delicate and 
delicious, that we fain would surrender ourselves to their seduc- 
tive illusion, although conscious they are but ideal fancies. 

The physiology of dreams, says Oilier, has puzzled the most 
profound inquirers, who, after all manner of ingenious conjectures, 
have left the subject just where they found it. Aristotle, Macro- 
bius, Lucretius, Democritus, and other ancients ;. and Wolfius, 
Locke, Hartley, Baxter, etc. of the moderns, have speculated in 
vain — one theory having been uniformly upset by another. Phy- 
sics are fairly bafiied and confounded in the investigation ; and 
psychology is forced to acknowledge in dreams a mystery beyond 
her solution : — 

" physic of Metaphysic begs defense, 

And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense !" 

Some notable guesses have nevertheless been made ; among others, 
that life itself is but a dream, dimly and feebly heralding the reali- 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 333 



ties to come. The high-priest of English mystics, Sir Thomas 
Brown, discoui'ses on dreams in his "ReUgio Medici," after this 
fashion : 

" There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights 
us in our dreams than in our waked senses : without this I were 
unhappy; for my awaked judgment discontents me, ever whisper- 
ing unto me that I am from my friend : but my friendly dreams in 
night requite me, and make me think I am within his arms. I 
thank God for my happy dreams, as I do for my good rest, for 
there is a satisfaction unto reasonable desires, and such as can be 
content with a fit of happiness ! and surely it is not a mdandioly 
conceit to think we are all asleep in this world, and that the, conceits of 
this life are as more dreams to those of the next ; as the phantasms of 
the night to the conceit of the day. There is an equal delusion in both, 
and the one doth but seem to be the emblem or picture of the other. We 
are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleep, and the slumber 
of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul : it is the liga- 
tion of sense, but the liberty of reason : and our waking concep- 
tions do not match the fancies of our sleep. At my nativity, my 
ascendant was the earthly sign of Scorpius ; I was born in the 
planetary hour of Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden 
planet in me. I am in no way facetious, nor disposed for the 
mirth and gilliardize of company ; yet in one dream I can compose 
a whole comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh 
myself awake at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faith- 
ful as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my 
dreams ; and this time also would I choose for my devotions ; but 
our grosser memories have then so little hold of our abstracted 
anderstandings that they forget the story, and can only relate to 
Dur awaked souls a confused and broken tale of that that hath 
passed. Aristotle, who hath written a smgular Tract of Sleep, 
hath not, methinks, thoroughly defined it : nor yet Galen, though 
he seems to have corrected it : for noctambuloes and night walk- 
ers, though in their sleep, do yet enjoy the action of their senses ; 



334 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



we must therefore say that there is something in us that is not in 
the, jurisdiction of Morpheus ; and that those abstracted and ecstatic 
souls do walk about in their own corpse, as spirits with the bodies 
they assume, wherein they seem to hear and feel, though indeed 
the organs are destitute of sense, and their natures of those facul- 
ties that should inform them. Thus it is observed, that men 
sometimes upon the hour of their departure do speak and reason 
above themselves. For then the soul begins to be freed from the 
ligaments of the body, begins to reason like herself, and to dis- 
course in a strain above mortality." 

But it is not so much in reference to the causes and general 
nature of dreams, as to theu* supposed power of divination, that a 
few words are devoted to them in the present pages. " We know, 
pretty well now," says Horace Walpole, in one of his letters, 
" that dreams which used to pass for predictions, are imperfect 
recollections." Be this as it may, the oneirocritics, when baffled 
in their attempts to establish any similitude between the " augu- 
ries " of sleep and subsequent or preceding facts, turn about, and 
vindicate the prophetic character of dreams hj dissimilitude and 
contrariety. Thus, they are certain to be right, one way or the 
other. 

That many remarkable and well-attested dreams have been 
reconcileable to after events, is beyond question — night visions and 
and night promptings which could not be explained by any theory 
of connection of ideas, or "imperfect recollections," or revival of 
associations utterly forgotten by the waking senses. On the con- 
trary, new images have been evolved in slumber, apparently point- 
ing towards future events, or seeming to convey awful warnings 
against unsuspected dangers, or suggesting remedies for evils long 
endured ; and numerous are the cases wherein results have been in 
unison with the supposed augury. Almost every person has had 
some such experience. Credulity, therefore, is seldom at a loss for 
food. 

Instead of assigning to dreams the character of divine interposi- 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 335 



tions, Milton presents Satan as their prompter when, disguised as 
a reptile, he instils his poison into the ear of the sleeping Eve : 

" Him there they found 
Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, 
Assaying by his devilish art to reach 
The organs of her fancy, and with them forge 
Illusions as he list, pha7itoms and dreams." 

" A belief in the prophetic power of dreams," says Dr. Pinker- 
ton, " was universal amongst the ancients, and has been more or 
less continued to the present time, sometimes even amongst per- 
sons of education. Thus, we occasionally hear of individuals 
having had mysterious communications in their dreams, and events 
prophecied to them, which have actually come to pass. That such 
dreams have occurred, and do yet occur, we have no doubt, but 
we must regard the fulfilment of them as being entirely the result 
of accident : for, as Dr. Macnish observes — ' any person who ex- 
amines the nature of the human mind, and the manner in which it 
operates in drea'ms, must be convinced that, under no circumstan- 
ces, except those of a miracle, in which the ordinary laws of na- 
ture are triumphed over, can such an event ever take place. The 
Sacred Writings testify that miracles were common in former 
times ; but I believe, no man of sane mind will contend, that they 
ever occur in the present state of the world. In judging of these 
things as now constituted, we must discard supernatural influence 
altogether, and estimate events according to the general laws, 
which the Great Ruler of nature has appointed for the guidance 
of the universe. If, in the present day, it were possible to con- 
ceive a suspension of these laws, it must, as in former ages, be in 
reference to some great event, and to serve some mighty purpo.se 
connected with the general interests of the human race ; but if 
faith is to be placed in modern miracles, we must suppose that 
God suspended the above laws for the most trivial and useless of 
purposes.' " 



336 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



n 



Shelley was a great dreamer, and at one time kept a record of 
his dreams ; whether with a view to the so-called science of oneu-o- 
criticism, is not known. 

Burton, author of the " Anatomy of Melancholy," who was a 
pious clergyman, thus quaintly discourses, in many parts of his 
book, against greedy credulity. "They that are superstitious," 
observes he, " are still fearing, suspecting, vexing themselves 
with augeries, prodigies, false tales, dreams, idle works, unpro- 
fitable labors ; as Boterus observes, euro, mentis andpite versan- 
tur : enemies to God and to themselves. In a word, as Seneca 
concludes, JReligio Deum colit, superstitio destruit : superstition des- 
troys, but true religion honors God." 

Montaigne, also, an author whose wisdom has been recognized 
between two and three centuries, is equally strong in denouncing 
credulity and superstition. 

"There yet remain amongst us," says he, "some practises 
of divination from the stars, from spu-its, from the shapes and 
complexions of men, from dreams and the like, (a notable ex- 
ample of the wild curiosity of our nature to grasj> at and antici- 
pate future things, as if we had not enough to do to digest the 
present.)" 

The most dismal of all night-noises — one of which the ghostly 
import is fully beUeved by scores of unreflectmg persons — but 
which is among the most innocent things in the world, is the 
"Death-watch." This curious sound has been held to announce 
the speedy decease of some inmate of the house wherein it is 
heard ; and overwhelming is the dread, and torturing are the 
heart-throes, occasioned by the ticking of this supposed fatal 
watch. Though natural history long ago declared that these 
sounds proceed from a little harmless insect, hundreds of believers 
still exist who refuse to be persuaded that the noise is not pro- 
phetic of the charnel-house. Even those who have been brought 
to credit the fact, that the ticking in question is made by an in- 
sect, are reluctant all at once to abandon a gloomy notion, and 



SLEEP AXD ITS MYSTERIES. 337 



therefore affirm that tlie sound is still significant of death, for, say 
Miey, it comes from a spider in the act of dying-, and when the 
ticks cease, the creature is dead. 

Many intelligent persons are aware that this latter opinion is 
e({ually erroneous with the former ; but as others may lack such 
correct information, it might not be altogether superfluous to state 
that the insect in question is not a spider, but " pedicidus of old 
wood, a species of tennes belonging to the order aptera in the Lin- 
n;eau system." It is very diminutive. 

There are two kinds of death-watches. One is very different in 
ajipearance from the other. The former only beats seven or eight 
(|uick strokes at a time : the latter will beat some hours together, 
more deliberately, and without ceasing. This ticking, instead of 
having aught to do with death, is a joyous sound, and as harmless 
as the cooing of a dove. 

It is to be regretted that Science, to which we owe so many 
blessings, — so much of health, both bodily and mental, — should 
have made an inconsiderate compromise with Superstition, by 
naming this lively and harmless little creature, "Mortisaga."* 

Burton demonstrates the delusions of those who affirm that 
they see supernatural visions, and hear supernatural noises : 

"That they see and hear so many phantasms, chimeras, visions, 
noises, etc., as Fieims hath discoursed at large in his book of Im- 
agination, and Lavater de Spedris, their corrupt phantasy makes 
them see and hear that which is indeed neither heard nor seen. 
They that much fast, or ^i■'ani sleep, as melancholy or sick men 
commonly do, see visions ; or such as are w^eak-sighted, very tim- 
orous by nature, mad, distracted, earnestly seek. Sabini quod 
vohinl somiiianl, as the saying is, they dream of that they desire." 

Again : " As Nercatus proves, by reason of inward vapors, and 
humors from blood, choler, etc., diversely mixed, they apprehend 
and see outwardly, as Ihey suppose, divers images, which indeed are 



oilier. 

16 



338 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



not. As they that drink wine think all runs round, when it is in 
their own brain, so it is with these men ; the fault and cause is 
inward. As Galen affirms, mad men, and such as are near death, 
qnns extra se videre putant imagines, intra oculos hahent, 'tis in their 
In-ain, that which seems to be before them ; as a concave glass re- 
flects solid bodies. * * Weak sight and a vain persua- 
sion withal, may effect as much, and second causes concurring, as 
an oar in the water makes a refraction, and seems bigger, bended 
double, etc. The thickness of the air may cause such effects ; or 
any object not well discerned in the dark, fear and phantasy will 
suspect to be a ghost, a devil, etc. Qitnd nimis miscri timent, hoc 
facile credunt, we are apt to believe and mistake in such cases. 
Marcellus Donatus brings in a story out of Aristotle, of one An- 
tepharon, who supposed he saw, wheresoever he was, his own 
image in the air, as in a glass. Vitellio hath such another instance 
of a familiar acquaintance of his, that, after the want of three or 
four nights' sleep, as he was riding by a rivei"-side, saw another 
riding with him, and using all such gesture as he did ; but when 
more light appeared, it vanished. Eremites and anchorites have 
frequently such absurd visions and revelations, by reason of much 
fasting and bad diet. Many are deceived by legerdemain, as Reg- 
inald Scot hath well shewed in his book of the discovery of witch- 
craft." 

Again : " The hearing is as frequently deluded as the sight, 
from the same causes . almost : as he that hears bells, will make 
them sound what he list." [Whittington to wit]. '"As the fool 
thinketh, so the bell clinketh.' Theophilus, in Galen, thought ho 
heard music in vapors, which made his ears sound, etc. * * 
Cardan mentioneth a woman that still supposed she heard the 
devil call her, and speaking to her ; she was a painter's wife in 
Milan. Many such illusions and voices proceed from a currupt 
imagination."* 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 339 



In IIouc's "Year Book," a story is related to the following 
effect : Peter Priestly, a gravestone-cutter of Wakeiiekl, in York- 
shire, desiring to finish the epitaph on a certain tombstone, left his 
home one evening for the church, in which he was permitted occa- 
sionally to work. Having arrived there, he set down his lantern, 
and, lighting another candle, resumed his rather gloomy task. Mid- 
night approached, and still his work was not completed. On a 
sadden, a strange noise, as of the utterance of " hiss I" or " hush !" 
startled him. He looked round, but nothing was seen — not even 
a bat, or owl, flitting athwart the upper darkness. 

Recovering from his surprise, Peter concluded he had been de- 
ceived, and plied his chisel with fresh vigor. In a few minutes, 
however, the ominous word was again audible. lie once more 
searched, but in vain, for the cause of so uncommon a sound; and, 
being at length terrified, was about to quit the church, when a 
sense of duty witliheld him, and he renewed his work, which was 
completed as the clock struck twelve. While, with downcast head, 
intently examining the epitaph he had cut, the dreadful word, 
" hush !" came louder than ever on his ear. Peter was now fairly 
ajjpalled. He concluded that he himself was summoned to the 
grave — that in fact he had been carving his own " Hic Jacet." 
Tottering home, he went to bed, but could not sleep. 

Ne.xt morning, his wife, happening to observe his wig, ex- 
claimed, " 0, Peter ! what hast thou been doing to burn all the 
hair off one side of thy Avig ?" 

"Ah, God bless thee!" vociferated the stone-cutter, jumping 
out of bed, " thou hast ciu'ed me with that word." 

The mysterious midnight sound was occasioned by the frizzling 
of Peter's wig, as it accidentally came in contact with the candle, 
while he bent over his work ; and the discovery thus made, af- 
forded many a jest and laugh. 

Somnamljulism appears to differ from dreaming chiefly in the 
degree in which the bodily functions are affected ; in the former 
the will seems to control the body, and its organs are more suscep 



340 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



tible of the mental impressions. The incipient form of soni 
uambulism shows itself in talking in sleep : this is sometimes a 
dangerous disease, as occasionally the most important secrets are, 
by the very party himself, involuntarily revealed — which in his 
waking moments he would reserve with especial care. The 
second stage of the phenomena, from which indeed it derives its 
name, is that of walking during sleep. Numerous remarkable 
histances of sleep-walking are to be met with — one of the most 
singular of which we remember to have read, years ago-^v/as 
that of a certain restless youth, who, so impetuous was he to obey 
the impulse of his nocturnal vision, that he rushed from his bed to 
the street, clad only in the usual drapery of the dormitory, and 
was found pursuing his route in the London streets at midnight, 
till some humane guardian of a policeman startled him from his 
state of dreamy complacency, and remonstrated with him as to 
the paucity of his apparel, etc. A remarkable case of somnam- 
bulism is related in the JEdinburgh Encydopccdia, concerning Dr. 
Blacklock, whose accomplishments, as a poet and a clergyman, 
though struggling from his early infancy with all the privations of 
blindness, are well known to the literary world. This excellent 
man had received a presentation to the living of Kirkcudbright, 
and his settlement was violently opposed. He became deeply 
agitated with the hostility exhibited against him, and after dining 
with some friends on the day of his ordination, finding rest 
necessary for the restoration of his exhausted spirits, he left the 
table and retu^ed to bed, when the following extraordinary circum- 
stance occurred : 

One of his companions, uneasy at his absence from the com- 
pany, went into his bedroom a few hours afterwards, and finding 
him, as he supposed, awake, prevailed on him to return again into 
the dining room. When he entered the room, two of his acquaint- 
ances were engaged in singing, and he joined in the concert, 
modulating his voice, as usual, with taste and elegance, without 
missing a note or syllable ; and, after the words of the song were 



SLEEP AND ITS MYSTERIES. 341 



ondcd, lie coutiiiued to sina:, adding an exlcmpore verse, -whieb 
appeared to the coini)aiiy full of beauty, and quite in the spirit of 
the original. He then partook of supper, and drank a glass or 
two of wine. Ilis friends, however, observed him to be occasion- 
ally absent and inattentive. By and bye, he was heard speaking 
to himself, but in so low and confused a manner as to be unintelli- 
gible. At last, being pretty forcibly aroused by. Mrs. Blacklock, 
who began to be alarmed for his intellect, he awoke with a 
sudden start, unconscious of all that had happened, having been 
the whole time fast asleep. 

Dr. Abercrombie relates some curious instances of persons 
having performed literary exploits during a state of somnolency ; 
among others he speaks of a certain member of a foreign univer- 
sity, who, after having devoted himself during his waking hours to 
the comi^osition of some verses, which, however, he had not been 
able to complete, seems to have been honored with more success in 
a visitation from his muse during his nocturnal slumbers ; for the 
following night he arose in his sleep, finished his poetic perform- 
ance, and exulting in his success returned again contentedly to his 
couch — all in a state of unconsciousness. 

Take another case, and it is the only one we shall cite : it is one 
even more remarkable, — and we might add a tax upon credulity 
were it not given by so respectable an authority. It is that of a 
young botanical student who resided at the house of his professor 
in London ; and who was zealously devoted to his pursuit, having 
indeed just received the highest botanical prize from a public insti- 
tution. One night, about an hour after he had gone to bed, hav- 
ing returned from a long botanical excursion, his master, who was 
sitting in his room below, heard a person coming down stairs with 
a heavy measured step, and on going into the passage, found his 
pupil with nothing on him but his hat and his shirt, his tin case 
swung across his shoulders, and a large stick in his hand. " His 
eyes were even more open than usual," says the narrator, "but I 
observed he never directed them to me or to the candle which I 



342 SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 



held. - While I was contera}Dlatiiig the best method of getting him 
to bed again, he commenced the following dialogue : ' Are you 
going to Greenwich, sir V ' Yes, sir.' ' Going by water, sir V 
' Yes, sir.' ' May I go with yon, sir ?' ' Yes, sir ; but I am going 
directly, therefore please to follow me.' Upon this I walked up 
to his room, and he followed me without the least error in stepping 
up the stairs. At the side of his bed, I begged he would get into 
the boat, as I must be off immediately. I then removed the tin 
case from his shoulders, his hat dropped off, and he got into bed, 
observing, ' he knew my face very well, — he had often seen me at 
the river's side.' A long conversation then ensued between him 
and the supposed boatman, in which he understood all that was 
said to him, and answered quite correctly respecting botanical 
excursions to Greenwich made by the professor and his pupils : and 
named a rare plant he had lately had, of which the superintendent 
of the botanic garden had seen only one specimen in his life, and 
the professor only two. After some further conversation, he was 
asked whether he knew who had gained the highest botanical 
prize ; when he named a gentleman, but did not name himself. 
' Indeed,' was the reply, ' did he gain the highest prize ?' To this 
he made no answer. lie was then asked, ' Do you know Mr, 

,' naming himself : after much hesitation he replied, ' If I must 

confess it, my name is .' This conversation lasted three-quar- 
ters of an hour, during which time he never made an irrelevant 
answer, and never hesitated, excepting about the prize and his own 
name. He then lay down in bed saying, ' he was tired, and would 
lie upon the grass till the professor came :' but he soon sat np 
again, and held a long conversation with another gentleman who 
then came into the room ; when he again understood everything 
that was said to him, to which he answered no less readily and 
accurately ; sometimes uttering long sentences without the least 
hesitation. After a conversation of about an hour, he said, ' It is 
very cold on this grass, but I am so tired I must lie down.' lie 
soon after lay down and remained qniet during the rest of the 



SLEEP AXD ITS MYSTERIES. 343 



niglit. Next luoniing he had not the least knowledge of what had 
passed, and was not even aware of havuig dreamt of anything 
whatever." Soma find their wits mueli keener Avhile fast asleep 
than when "wide awake." "Mankind," says a quaint writer, 
"are so generally indisposed to think, that such drowsy souls really 
make the world a vast dormitory. The heaven ajipointed destiny 
under wliieh they are ])laced, seems to protect them from reflec 
tion ; there is an opium sky-stretched over all the world which con- 
tinually rains soporifics." As this is the boasted age of progress* 
sleepers will in-obably be aroused by the din of tlie locomotive, and 
the world in its dotage at last begin to think. Undue indulgence 
of sleep may cheat us of much of our brief life ; but the listlessness 
of an undisciplined mind, may accomplish as great a wrong upon 
us, and with as wily an artifice. 

An admonitory paragraph from a recent homilist, and the 
reader may dream over our dissertation, if found to l)c sufficiently 
soporific : 

" The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, drink and sleep ; 
to be exposed to darkness and the light ; to pace around in the 
mill of habit, and turn the wheel of wealth ; to make reason our 
book-keeper, and turn thought into an implement of trade — this is 
not life. In all this but a poor fraction of the unconsciousness of 
humanity is awakened ; and the sanctities still slumber which 
make it most w^orth while to be. Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, 
goodness, faith, alone can give vitality to the mechanism of exist- 
ence ; the laugh of mirth which vibrates through the heart, the 
tears which freshen the dry w-astes within, the music that brings 
childhood back, the jjrayer that calls the future near, the doubt 
which makes us meditate, the death which startles us with mys- 
tery, the harc^hip which forces us to struggle, the anxiety that 
ends in trust — are the true nourishment that end in being." 

Shakspeare says, " Our little life is rounded by a sleep :" it is 
well, therefore, to yield ourselves to its activities in an earnest 
spirit, that the respite of repose may be the sweeter. The Irish- 



344 SALAD FOR THK SOLITARY. 



man who surrendered himself to the " sweet oblivious antidote," 
must have understood the matter, for, on being asked the secret 
of his enjoyment, he replied that " he bent his mind to it." 

Here, then, gentle reader, we reach the terminus of our excur- 
sion among the by-ways of literature. "We presented at the outset 
the various edibles with which epicures delight to regale their 
palate: and now, at parting, a "sleeping potion." Possibly our 
progress may have been marked by many dull and drowsy pas- 
sages, — we can scarcely hope to plead innocent to this trans- 
gression against good manners, yet, leaving our misdemeanors with 
thy clemency and candor, we cherish the hope that if our efforts 
have failed of imparting pleasure, they have at any rate been 
unproductive of its opposite. 




8ECOND EDITION. -REVISBD. 

Published hy Lamport, Blal-eman & Laic, N. Y. 

LONDON: 

ITS HISTORIC AND LITERARY CURIOSITIES. 

Is a f ouijoucr. 

With Numerous Engravings. 12mo, cloth, 75 cts., paper covers, 50 cts. 



OF THE PRESS. 

"An excellent digest of information for persons about to visit London, written by a 
gentleman who is equal!)' familiar with every thing of interest and curiosity in the 
British metropolis and with the wants of the American reader. It not only embraces 
the usual topics of an ordinary Guide-book, but describes the famous nooks and corners 
which are connected with the history of English literature. Tlicre is no work written, 
to our knowledge^ which furnishes a more authentic introduction to the heart of the 
English capital, than this attractive Volume. We presume few intelligent Americans 
will henceforth think of making the transatlantic tour without a copy." — Tribune. 

"The most handsome and intelligent Tade inecum for a stranger visiting the Great 
Metropolis of the World wo have ever seen. Every tr-aveler to the fatherland will avail 
himself of the well-selected fund of information it contains. With such an aid he will 
save much time in asking questions, and, besides, know as much about London in a few 
days as he otherwise would in several weeks." — Christian Intelligencer. 

"It is an excellent book; just such as every American who goes to London should 
take with him, and which any one can read with profit, even if he has no intention 
to visit London." — Dr. Baird. 

"We know of no book that we should be so careful to see placed in our valise, or to 
put in our pocket, were we about to visit the city of London. We have lingered over its 
pages with great interest, and with a consciousness of acquiring knowledge of the things 
and places it describes, though we saw them not, save in some of the truthful drawings 
scattered through the volume. It is the best Guide extant, and will be a standard work 
for many years to come." — N". Y. Commercial Adveriitier. 

" An excellent book on the subject. It is the best manual we know of." — iV. J*^ 
Evening Post. 

"A most capital hand-book for the scholar, whether voyaging or sedentary. This 
little volume, with its profuse illustrations, would give the stay-at-home reader a 
better notion of that wondrous city tlian an actual visit would be apt to furnish." — 
y. Y. Times. 

" It is a very instructive as well as amusing volume, which will be profitable to those 
who go to London and those who do not. The writer having been born in the midst of 
his subject, executes his task with a con-amorish air that adds greatly to its interest."— 
Sunday Courier. 



a . Oi'I.NloXri OF THE PRESS. 

" It is by tlie magic wliich resides in little liistorical volumes like tliis that London 
grows grandly iu our imaginations, and that we tread its sombre streets as if they wero 
the palaces of Eastern fable." — Literary World. 

"The pleasantest Guide'book that has ever fallen under our observation."' — So. Lit. 
Messenger. 

"This is a very graphic, compact, and accurate description of London, indicating in a 
brief, suggestive way, the numerous shrines of genius, historical localities, and various 
memorabilia of the Great Metropolis. It abounds with much curious and interesting 
matter, and is written in a clear, close style, that reflects great credit upon its author." — 
Coiirier and Enquirer. 

" A more tasteful and readable volume, on this subject, cannot be found." — Ohio State 
Journal. 

"■ To all who would understand the innumerable productions of English literature, 
wliose scenes arc laid in London, and to all who purpose visiting the gi-eat city in person, 
we would recommend this book most sincerely." — N. Y. Recorder. 

"This book enables one to remain quietly by his own fireside, and still walk about 
London and survey its palaces, and search through its various archives, and even st-'idy 
its history, and hold communion with its illustrious dead. It is evidently the result of 
great labor, and brings an immense mass of valuable Information within a small compass. 
Every American who crosses the ocean should take care that it makes part of his 
luggage." — Albany Argus. 

"The writer is evidently familiar with his subject from personal observation ; he is at 
homo in the antique nooks and corners of the British capital ; and, at the same time 
making a judicious use of the best authorities, he has produced a volume filled with 
valuable information, and a variety of amusing matter." — Ilarper^s Magazine. 

"This new book is everything that is wanted. It will serve any traveler, instead of a 
most intelligent guide, who has spent his whole life in 'the Great Metropolis.' No man 
should cross the ocean without taking it with him ; and those who stay at home, should 
study it as the best substitute for an actual visit that ever has-been, or is likely soon to be, 
furnished to them." — Puritan Recorder, 

" This is really what it purposes to be, and not compilations from guide books, by a 
man of evident taste and education. To us who stay here at home, the volume, with its 
numerous illustrations, answers the purpose of a panorama; to the traveler it must be 
an indispensable vade meciim, taking the stranger by pleasant paths to those localities 
hallowed by the residence, birth or death, of those whose memories are England's glory." 
— Newark Advertiser. 

"It has the accuracy of a Guide-book without its dryness, and abounds in the precise 
kind of infornliation which a cultivated traveler most desiderates, and for stay-at-home 
travelers, who make their excursions only through the medium of books, this volume 
will prove a most entertaining and instructive companion." — Methodist Quarterly. 

" He seems to have omitted nothing in his descriptions, which a stranger would desire 
to see, interspersing his narration with anecdotes of remark.able personages, whoso 
memories are for ever associated with particular localities." — London Art Journal, 

" A right pleasant book has Mr. Saunders given us in the above. An old archway 
covered with moss, a dingy dwelling ih the rich, quaint architecture of other days, a nook 
hiding away in shadow, and a court nestling among tall buildings — all are full of 
' memories' to the accomplished writer." — Albany Argus, 



T13 

ri2 ort. 1 sfiD 







.^^' 









nO 



\ • 



%^^^ *^^./^Z- 









&^ "^ 



'.> ,0 



<i 












' , X -* <^ 




C* V, ^ ;**■ - "-St. ..-- -<\ 


















•^^ 



.-^ ..^"^ 









.^^' c 






-d>. 



% ^V''*' 



.>" '-% 






A^ 



Ir <^:^'"^ 















xO^^. 









..-^^• 






A .. N c 









-oo' 





0,'^"~ ■ 




•'^- ,^\^- 










^ '^-^ 




V 


VJ> 


^ 




» \ '. /: , 


'%. 


aV' , "■ ■ '■ « 




\. ''^ 


,:"«■'' ■> . .. 






^^\ ^\.^^- '-'\, 



.0^^ 









: \V 'ct. 



' .0 



'^c 















:% 



\^°^. 






,0" 






-i.' 



'^ v>^ .^ 












,.'«- 






■ 0' 






<^0 






^■ft - o c o -1=^ 



^ ' aV 



-^^ 


% 


.^ .^^ 




•o 




^ . 1 




cP' 





•-oo^ 



^^ 



,^ -r^ 



X 






\\ 





















